


IC: The Pact

by bbqbert



Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2019-08-17 15:44:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 58
Words: 204,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16519358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbqbert/pseuds/bbqbert
Summary: One year after Galbatorix's fall, an untouchable force awakens and seeks to lay claim to all of Alagaësia. Murtagh binds himself with an oath to oppose the supernatural forces and becomes entangled in a vast war, and protecting what matters most to him may end up costing him everything.





	1. Prologue

Murtagh was only vaguely aware of the stabbing pain in his head and the weakness in his limbs as he crumbled to the stone floor. Eragon landed beneath him, and Murtagh fastened a tight grip on the back of his half brother's tunic.

A roaring vortex of lights numbed Murtagh's senses. What felt like hundreds of minds clamored into his own, hammering away at his defenses with a might far greater than Galbatorix's. It took all of his focus to keep them at bay, and finally, they relented. Like a powerful, raging river, the invading forces of consciousness swept from Murtagh to Eragon. The great sound of wind silenced all else, but Eragon made an expression as one does when in the throes of death.

Murtagh's body went numb, but he twisted his hand in the fabric of Eragon's tunic to keep from losing him. Steeling himself, he built up his mind like a battering ram and attacked the consciousnesses that were assaulting his brother. If Eragon was aware of any of it, Murtagh could not tell.

A sound like thousands of screaming voices reverberated through Murtagh's head, but he pressed on with his attack. For every consciousness that he beat back, ten more took its place. Nevertheless, he would prevail or die trying. Then, pain like a sharp knife piercing through the back of his head made Murtagh recoil in both mind and body.

Silence followed. Everything slowed and the world simply stopped.

Murtagh's vision cleared and the pain faded. Cautiously, he rose to his hands and knees, still reluctant to let go of his sibling. Eragon's face was contorted in pain, frozen in what appeared to be a muted, ceaseless scream. On the far side of the castle keep were countless dragon eggs and Eldunarí, and the bodies of elves were strewn on the gray floor around them. Saphira had collapsed while attempting to protect them. Adjacent to her was Thorn, rearing on his hind legs, maw wide in a terrific roar, but not a sound escaped him. He was nothing more than a statue.

Suspended in the air throughout the entire keep were thousands of orbs of radiant light. Individually they were small, trivial things, but together they were blinding. Murtagh found one right beside his head, and he shifted away from it. The light flickered but did not move.

Another jab in the back of his head made Murtagh curl forward. With perfect ease, a single consciousness entered his mind. It bypassed every defense without resistance, sifting through every thought and memory of Murtagh's brief existence. No matter what he did, Murtagh could keep nothing from it.

Suddenly, the consciousness poured into him what could only be its own thoughts and memories, though most of it Murtagh could not understand. The sheer volume was overwhelming, and he pressed his hands against the ground to brace himself. His forehead touched Eragon's back. He saw some things too great to understand and forgotten immediately thereafter. Lastly, he saw Alagaësia in ruin, a land dead from one edge to the other, a barren wasteland devoid of life and meaning.

A voice spoke into his mind with indecipherable words, powerful words that made no sound but he knew regardless something was being said. The consciousness touched his mind again, and when it returned it spoke to him in his own language as well as the Ancient Language, two voices at once, both sounding like no more than an echo.

 _With your help, I can overcome them,_ said the consciousness.

Murtagh struggled to sit up. His arms were shaking. Though he did not understand why, he believed its words. The Ancient Language did not convince him, but the memories and thoughts of the consciousness did. It was not a particularly compassionate being, rather it was cold and calculated, but it did not desire the destruction of Alagaësia any more than he did.

"Who are you?" he asked, surprised that he could even hear his own voice.

The consciousness answered him in unintelligible words, but they shook him to the core. Then it spoke again and said, _My kind is not like your kind to have such a thing as a name. I am what I am, and I am the source of all balance in my world and yours._

Murtagh realized then that what it spoke at first was surely its true name, and it was something unfathomable. Whatever this consciousness was, it was ancient and powerful. "What do you want from me?"

 _Form a pact with me,_ said the consciousness. As it spoke words, it also offered many more thoughts and memories that Murtagh could not understand. At least he understood what sort of pact the entity wanted, as well as what it would cost him. _Through you, I will bring this world back into balance._

Time flowed again, though it was slow to start. The lights began to move, and Thorn began to fall. It was quiet, but Murtagh heard his dragon's desperate roar, Eragon's agonized scream and the gusts of wind created by the movement of the lights. Time was short.

"You expect me to die?" questioned Murtagh. He understood well enough, for the consciousness had shared everything with him. The cost of power was great.

 _I expect your world to live,_ answered the entity in his mind.

Murtagh looked first to the dragons and Eldunarí. They had only received this safe haven a year earlier, and now someone—something—had come to trample upon it, and that alone made him tremble in anger. Second he looked to Thorn, and he knew he wanted his partner, his only true friend, to live. Last his gaze fell upon Eragon, and he gripped the back of his tunic once more and inwardly scolded his sibling for falling. It was not his fault, not really. Nothing could have stood against these formless, flitting beings.

"Very well," Murtagh said to the entity in his mind, and then he made a pact with it in the Ancient Language. The consciousness gave no indication of satisfaction or pleasure and simply fulfilled its end of the agreement.

Time moved forward, but now Murtagh could see the lights as individual beings even as they soared past him. With renewed strength, he rose and drew the wine-red blade of Zar'roc from its sheath. The sword called _Misery_ glowed with supernatural power. With an assertive shout, he swung the blade and cleaved several of the lights in half. Now knowing full well he could defeat them, Murtagh moved from one end of the keep to the other, spinning his sword with effortless precision and dashing their assailants to pieces. After being cut, lights fell out of the air and shattered to dust on the stone floor.

Nevertheless, many more filled the empty space he created. Murtagh spoke words of magic, sending a wall of fire through the keep, then a bolt of lightning and a gust of wind. Lights burst. All the while, he kept cutting them down. His body felt strong and his magic limitless, as though he had a thousand or more Eldunarí at his disposal. It was a terrifying thought.

A distorted sound somewhere between a screech and a howl echoed through the keep, and Murtagh spun on his heels. Eragon was standing, but his body was wrapped in a black fog. His eyes glowed pure white. He opened his mouth and let out a gargled inhuman shout like the desperate cry of a strangled animal. Lights circled him and landed on him, and the dark mist around Eragon expanded.

Murtagh froze and then took a step back as Eragon drew his shining blue sword, Brisingr _._

 _You must cut them down,_ said the consciousness in his mind with chilling resolve, and Murtagh knew he meant the _them_ that was joined together with Eragon.

"No," Murtagh snapped.

Eragon moved, and the distance between him and Murtagh closed in a blink. Crimson and sapphire blades clashed. Murtagh attempted to parry and duck benath Eragon's sword, spinning around to strike from the side, but his sibling caught the blade of Zar'roc with his bare hand. Murtagh let out a muffled gasp as Eragon disarmed him, threw Zar'roc aside and swung at him again with Brisingr. If Murtagh had the power of a thousand Eldunarí, then Eragon had ten thousand. His speed and power were impossible to match.

 _Quickly! You must cut them before they assume full control,_ commanded the consciousness, and now Murtagh understood its urgency.

More of the lights fell upon Eragon, and the black mist around him grew larger still. Darkness spread across the castle keep and devoured everything it touched. Eragon swung his sword in a mindless frenzy, his eyes open but expression blank. He looked the part of a dead man on puppet strings. Murtagh shuddered and jumped backwards, rolled once across the floor and deflected a sword strike with magic. He spoke a spell to still Eragon's movements. The bindings wavered quickly, and Eragon moved despite them.

 _Now! Before all is lost!_ The consciousness was concerned not for Murtagh but for the whole of Alagaësia. Again, images of a ruined world came into Murtagh's mind, and he knew very well that the entirety of the land was at stake.

"I cannot!" Murtagh called out even as Eragon unleashed another mangled animalistic scream. It was not his brother's voice but rather the sound of a hundred different voices, and it made his ears bleed. "Find another way!"

Silence answered him, and Murtagh dipped beneath another swing of Brisingr's blade. He jumped to his feet and put up a ward that was shattered instantly, but it allowed him some space. In the back of his mind, the consciousness considered many things, and Murtagh was aware of them all. Nothing succeeded save one solution, and it was not in his favor.

"Do it," Murtagh demanded. Brisingr whistled past his face, cutting off a chunk of his hair. He fell back to avoid the lethal blow.

 _You do not understand what you ask. If I do this, your very existence will be erased. It will be as though you never were._ The consciousness wavered, and Murtagh did not understand its sentiments. It felt something akin to confusion and disbelief. _Your name, your identity—you will become nothing._

Murtagh fell against a wall and allowed Brisingr to strike him in the side. The blade caught in the wall behind him. He snatched the grip, pressed his back against the wall and jumped, kicking both feet into Eragon's gut. His sibling dropped his sword and staggered backwards.

In his very brief moment of respite, Murtagh once again thought over the great cost. His existence—erased. His eyes lingered on Eragon and then traveled to Thorn. Lights assailed him and kept them apart, and the connection between them had been severed. The crimson dragon snapped at the lights and thrashed at them with his claws and tail, and occasionally he threw the full weight of his body upon them. Nothing touched them.

With resolve, Murtagh cast his gaze once again upon Eragon. "Do it."

 _Why would you desire such a thing?_ Now the consciousness in his mind was rattled. It did not understand, in its cold, calculated and methodical processing, why this should be a better solution than simply killing Eragon. Murtagh pulled Brisingr out of the wall and out of his side. He spun it on his fingertips and armed himself with it, prepared as Eragon rose again. _You are a creature of flesh, and your life is fleeting. What will be cannot be undone, and all this for another creature of flesh. Why?_

"Because," Murtagh started. He braced his feet on the ground in a wide stance, pointing the sapphire blade of Brisingr at Eragon. "He is my brother."

The consciousness did not understand and sifted through his memories again as though it wanted to. Nevertheless, it acquiesced to his request. The full length of Brisingr became sheathed in rippling white light. It looked like a bird's feather fluttering in the wind. Eragon ran at him, and Murtagh met him. It only took two swings, one that missed and one that landed. Brisingr, shining white, cut through Eragon from his left shoulder to his right hip, and the darkness around him shattered. Another deafening scream escaped his parted lips, and then he crumpled to the floor.

Out of Eragon stepped what appeared to be the body of a person consisting of nothing but shadows. Murtagh slashed at it with the shining white sword in his hands, but the creature caught the blade and hurled it—and Murtagh—across the room. Murtagh turned in the air, calculated the distance and then threw the sword, smashing the shadowy creature in what should have been its head. It roared something more frightful than any dragon. While it raged, spheres of black fog broke away from it, darting in every direction.

Murtagh hit the wall and then the ground, then scrambled to his feet and prepared for another attack. However, the creature of shadows burst, and all of the lights within the keep fled. As the shadows scattered, they disappeared through the floor, the walls, and the ceiling, and wherever they touched opened a rift like a hole filled with swirling black water.

A shadow disintegrated near Eragon, and he was swallowed by a hole in the floor before Murtagh could run or even speak a word to save him. The ground ripped open beneath Murtagh as he took another step, and he, too, fell forward into darkness. Thorn lunged for him but was too far away, and darkness opened up near the crimson dragon as well. The entire keep was a twisting mess of shadows.

In one last attempt to save those who remained, Murtagh shouted spells of sealing and protection, every one that he knew, powerful wards to keep anything and everything out. Then he fell. The last thing he heard was Thorn roaring somewhere high above and far away, and then there was only silence and darkness.


	2. A Mother's Plea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I started working on this project back in September and already have it well over half written, but now that the new book of short stories is coming out, I'm concerned some of it will become obsolete. I do try not to deviate too far from canon, so it legitimately troubles me but can't be helped at this point. On that note, though not the focus of this story, canon pairings will be implied or touched upon.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who reads, follows, favorites, and/or comments~ I really do appreciate it more than words can express. I hope you are able to enjoy reading this story as much as I have writing it.

 

Hot. That was the grueling sensation Murtagh awoke to. It was a dry heat, and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, his lips were cracked, and his face was scorched. Only after several attempts was he able to open his eyes, and he winced and held his hand up against the blazing light.

It took a moment for him to recover his wits, and then he slowly drew himself upright. All but his face was buried in sand, and all around him lay a barren, desert landscape. Orange dunes rolled in every direction and were framed by empty blue skies. In the distance were mountains or boulders. Through the haze of heat, he could not tell for certain which it was. He was completely, utterly alone.

"Thorn," he croaked, and his throat burned. His muscles ached in protest as he climbed to his feet, and it took a great more effort than he liked to stay upright. Despite the pain, he raised his voice. "Thorn!" Again with his mind, he reached out and shouted,  _Thorn!_  Silence answered him. He scanned the sand for any trace of another, but there was nothing, only him, and not even footprints to suggest how he came this far. Spinning, he called out, "Eragon!"

Murtagh reached with his mind in search of any trace of life, and aside from a stray creature here and there, the desert was a wasteland. He expanded his search as far as it would go and found what may have been life at the mountains—or boulders—but he was not certain. He withdrew back into himself and had to sit down. Dizziness overwhelmed him from the heat and exertion.

His attire was meant for a cold, wet climate, and so he unraveled his cloak, discarded all unnecessary leather and wool articles, and kept only a pale undershirt and black trousers. He pulled the cloak on to shield himself from the sun, and everything else he left behind.

He regretted that he no longer had a sword and only carried with him a single dagger.

Speaking a word of magic, he cooled the air around him enough to be bearable but not so much that it strained him. Exhaustion hung onto him as the sand clung to his skin and clothes. Aiming for the faint signs of life in the distance, he trudged through sand that often rose past his ankles. A little magic would ease the burden, but his head hurt too much to bother.

Then, everything that had happened came crawling to the forefront of his memory. Murtagh paused and reached into his mind in search of the foreign consciousness that should be there. It was present, like an annoying thought that one could not quite remember but desperately wanted to recall, but no matter how much he prodded it, the entity did not respond. It was still and silent. He tried to borrow its strength as before, using it to fuel a few extra spells for comfort from the heat, water from deep in the earth, and the ability to walk on the sand as though solid rock. It wearied him, but not nearly as much as it should have. The consciousness, willing or not, lent him power.

After gathering a few handfuls of cool water in his hands and drinking and rinsing himself off, he used one last handful of water to scry Thorn and Eragon. Neither appeared, and it left a sinking feeling in his gut that did not go away. Splashing the water on his face and sweeping his hair back, he set out in search of life. Murtagh pulled his hood up and set a steady pace.

What an awful reunion with Eragon that had been. Leave it to him.

A year prior, he and Thorn left cultivated Alagaësia and ventured to places far less traveled and oftentimes far less civil. A few Urgals and several slave trade encounters later and Murtagh wondered how much reprieve they would actually have. However, the circumstances had probably been for the best. Sitting alone on a snowy hill for a year would have been counterproductive, and both he and Thorn knew only combat. They fought some Urgals and befriended others only for the sole purpose of taking down slave traders that insisted on capturing every remote group of people they could find. Kidnapping people who supposedly did not exist was an easy profit, apparently.

Despite their chance encounters and strange companions in the north, and even though he had Thorn, Murtagh was still haunted by loneliness. It hung on him like his own shadow. His anger had subsided enough to be manageable, and so Thorn suggested they return for a visit, for  _companionship_ , as the dragon put it.

Truthfully, Murtagh wondered if  _Thorn_  was lonely. After all, Murtagh doubted his own ability to be decent company.

And so, they departed from the far north with the intention of trying to find where Eragon had gone. It was over Du Weldenvarden, the vast sprawling forest at the northeast of Alagaësia, that Thorn felt the peculiar pull of magic that steered them east. The crimson dragon had described it as a shift in the natural energy of the world, so fine that few but dragons would ever feel it. It concerned him, and so it concerned Murtagh as well.

Across a sprawling plain and wide, deep stretches of river, far beyond the well-traveled lands of Alagaësia, lay an icy mountain that towered high above all others at the far end of the Beor Mountains. Upon it was a half-built castle with a grand courtyard and a broad keep far larger than any human or elf would ever demand. It was a castle built for dragons.

Murtagh and Thorn never had time to truly appreciate it. As soon as they approached, a storm of lights had engulfed them and brought them to the ground, unceremoniously into the keep. The elves had already fallen when they arrived. Everything after that happened so quickly that Murtagh barely remembered it.

So he did not bother trying, not yet.

After traveling for a better part of the day and mulling over recent events, Murtagh reached the peak of a high dune. Beneath him lay an expanse of pale red stone and massive boulders, though sand had washed away much of the land's color. On the other end of the expanse, still small on the horizon, were the jagged peaks of what were likely the Beor Mountains. At least now he had a sense of where he was. Heavy from exhaustion, he slid down the dune and landed on solid stone.

As he took one step forward, a woman's scream echoed across the field of rocks. Murtagh ceased his spells of cooling and stability, placing around himself instead a simple spell of protection. Then, he sprinted in the direction of the shout and then slipped into the shade of a large boulder.

A group of at least fifty people were coming out of a mountain pass. Most were civilians, many with bruises and bloody, tattered clothes, and they dragged their feet. A few horse-drawn carts hauled even more people, weaker still than any of the others, and armed men surrounded the assembly on all sides. Murtagh counted twenty armed, surly-looking men: slave traders.

Near the front of the group, a woman stumbled. It must have been a repeated offense, for a nearby trader snarled through his teeth and hauled her off the ground by her graying hair. He hollered obscenities at her and reeled back his hand to strike her. His arm froze in place, and a puzzled expression arose on his face and the woman's.

By a spell, Murtagh pinned his arm. "Did your mother never teach you how to treat a lady?" Then he drew his dagger.

The man opened his mouth, and Murtagh threw the dagger into his back. He fell without making a sound, and the woman landed on her knees. She and several other civilians stared at Murtagh with wide eyes and gaping mouths. He took a sword from his victim and scanned the crowd. A few of the other slave traders shouted and pointed, and several ran in his direction. Stray arrows shot from over a boulder, and he deflected them with magic only for fear of them striking innocents.

One of the slave traders reached him, then another, eventually followed by all the rest. Murtagh ducked under a few blades, danced around several more, and all the while cut down his attackers with about as much effort as it took for him to get out of bed each morning. Leaving a trail of bodies in his wake, Murtagh found one last trader running not towards him but towards the civilians. Snatching his dagger out of his first victim's back, he launched it at the man, striking him square between the eyes.

Civilians eyed Murtagh in both wonder and fear. Rather than acknowledge them, he went and picked through the supplies on the bodies, claiming for himself two spare belts, several different daggers, a silver sword that suggested these traders had a successful business, a bow and a quiver of arrows. As he was putting them on, a few people approached him.

"Thank you," said the woman he had saved first. She held a hand towards him, retracted it, and covered her lips, eyes wide. Perhaps she recognized him.

"Don't mention it," he told her, and he meant it. Flashing his best attempt at a charming smile despite his fatigue and pounding head, Murtagh fastened a belt across his chest to keep the quiver at his back and then walked away from her. If these were the Beor Mountains, he could make his way back to civilization easily enough.

"Wait!" The woman followed after him but stopped when he faced her. Several other people gathered behind her, and all stared at him as though in expectation. His eyes went wide as the woman fell to her knees at his feet and clung to him. "Please! We are not the only hostages… our children were taken! They should still be nearby—please help us save them!"

Murtagh instinctively tried to step away from her, but she did not let him go. He opened his mouth to deny her request but could not bring himself to do so. A few others stepped forward, mothers mostly and a few fathers, and pleaded with him. The woman pinning his legs raised her head, and tears ran down her face.

"Please," she begged. "We have no one else." With her head bowed again, she concluded, "Our children are helpless. Please…"

Helpless. That was a concept that resonated with Murtagh, and not only that, but a mother's tears as well

"Where are they?" he asked without accepting the task.

A man with a strong jaw and broad shoulders limped forward, his expression hard. "There is a deserted city in the mountains near here. We were also there until our captors decided to move us to Helgrind. For some reason, the children were left behind."

"Orthíad," Murtagh mused. While in Tronjheim, he had reviewed various maps of the land and read information about cities in the mountains. Orthíad had been a grand dwarven city that was eventually replaced by Tronjheim.

"You will help us, then?" wondered the mother at his feet.

Murtagh's gaze flicked from her to the others gathered around. Their faces were drawn and haggard and their bodies battered and bruised, but a light still shone in their eyes. They were placing their hopes on him. A detour was not desirable, but the thought of children in the hands of slave traders did not sit well in his stomach. Drawing in a long, deep breath, he nodded. Several people shouted for joy, and the mother began to sob into her hands. Murtagh shifted and rubbed the back of his head, turning away from her. No one had been rescued yet, so celebration was certainly not in order.

"How far back is it?" he asked them.

"About a half a day's walk," answered the man. He waved at a group of people who went to prepare the carts. "We'll go with you. My son is there."

Murtagh did not argue. After looking over the group another time, however, he frowned. "Everyone is unwell. Are there enough provisions?"

"The cart is full of food and water," answered an older woman. "Now that our captors are gone, we can have some for ourselves."

"Use them sparingly. It's still a good distance to the next town," Murtagh told them. The man with the limp was staring at him, his eyes narrow and chilling. Murtagh was used to it and ignored him. "Ensure the weakest among you eat first, and save for the children. Drink the water freely. I can provide more if needed."

A few people tipped their heads at him, but most accepted his words and scurried about, attending to their own matters. The man scrutinized Murtagh from head to toe and then went to the carts and began passing out supplies. Food and drink did much to revive their bodies and spirits.

After everyone had their fill, they turned their procession around and retraced their steps, only now, Murtagh led them.

Night fell upon them, and the temperature plummeted. They did not stop to set up camp, though, for time was short. There was no real need, either. Murtagh cast a spell for warmth around the entirety of the group, protecting them from the chill. It should have been a wearisome task on his own, but with the help of the sleeping entity in his mind, it was simple enough. Likely there would be some backlash for him using its strength, but it seemed only fair since the being was  _napping_  in his head.

By the time they arrived on the outskirts of Orthíad, the sun was on the verge of rising again. Hues of orange, pink and purple painted the horizon. Nights were brief in the desert.

As the day dawned, Murtagh allowed a small group to lead him to the entrance of the city. Orthíad, like most dwarven cities, was built inside the mountain and had superior defenses. This particular city, however, had been deserted and neglected so long that half the mountain had crumbled around it, exposing it to the elements. There were more than a dozen weaknesses that Murtagh could easily exploit with magic to get inside.

People garbed in long black cloaks with high hoods came and went from the city's many entrances. Most milled around without intention, swaying back and forth, pacing across the sand. As light spilled into the valley, many disappeared inside. Those that did not continued their aimless activities in the shadows. Murtagh moved closer, constantly remaining out of their sight. Whoever they were, they were tall for humans and walked with a strange gait. It was familiar somehow.

One turned briefly in his direction, and Murtagh spun with a start and slipped behind a stone wall. Beneath the hood was not the face of a man but a gnarled, dark creature with a crooked beak. Ra'zac. Murtagh counted thirty or so, and those were only the ones outside the city. Behind him, the few civilians with him came close, and he immediately pushed them back, ushering them away.

"Are there any humans in there?" he asked, keeping his voice low. All the while, he herded them away from the city. His heart hammered in his chest. Even with a large supply of magic, this was a suicide mission. "Or just those things?"

"They were people," whispered a short man with a bald head. His nasally words did not hold much certainty. "They all dress like that and had their faces covered."

Not people! Murtagh rubbed his brow. "How many?"

"A whole city," answered the man with square shoulders. He crossed his arms. "Several hundred by my estimate."

Several hundred Ra'zac. All of them were supposed to be dead. The Ra'zac had no reason to keep the children alive. This was a suicide mission without purpose. And for what reason were the adults taken away in the first place? Surely such a large group of adults would make a better feast than children. Then, a hand gripped Murtagh's arm.

"Please," began the mother who had begged for his aid. "Our children."

Murtagh glanced back in the direction of the city, then continued to usher the people away. Maintaining a constant awareness of their surroundings, he led them a safe distance away and told them, "Go back and get as far from here as possible."

"We will not leave our children," began the mother, shaking her head with brow furrowed. Tears rimmed her eyes.

The man with the limp stepped between them, and he crossed his arms over his chest and looked down his nose and Murtagh.

"Go," Murtagh ordered, and he grabbed the man's forearm and squeezed. The man did not waver. "Those are not people, they are Ra'zac, and they will tear all of you to pieces if given the chance. Get out of here  _now._ "

Eyes wide, the man stepped back. Truly they had not realized. The woman covered her face and fell again to her knees. Gasps and whispers erupted from the few others with them. Murtagh tried to urge them away, hauling the woman back to her feet and dragging her.

"Follow the mountains west and you will eventually reach Surda. You can find shelter there," he told them. The woman was sobbing, and so he grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "Enough! I will look for the children. But you must go!"

"You would still go after them?" wondered the man with raised eyebrows.

"I will," Murtagh promised. "Now go as quickly as you can, and stop for nothing."

The man nodded and then pulled the woman away by her arm. She continued to beg for the safety of her child, but her words were drowned by hiccups and sobs. The rest of the group followed, and Murtagh waited until they were completely gone from sight.

Sliding across several stone ledges, he peered at the city. The Ra'zac continued shuffling around without purpose. Most were small, probably young. That gave Murtagh both hope and dread—hope that they were immature and weak, and dread because they may have had a parent around.

Careful where he allowed his mind to wander, he searched for traces of human life. Within the city, he touched upon the Ra'zac, and they were all the same. Empty, hollow, and devoid of thought or feeling. They were indistinguishable from each other, their presences muddled and blurry, unnatural.

His mind reached from one end of the city to the other, and that is where he found them. A group of humans, approximately thirty or so, all clumped together in one place. Murtagh retreated before he felt much, but their terror gave him the chills. Sliding down, he sat on the stone ledge and stared in the general direction of where the children were. He could probably get in with little trouble and a lot of magic, but how was he to take thirty children with him on the way out? Only with a lot more magic.

Murtagh prodded at the sleeping being in his head.  _Mind if I borrow some of your power?_  he asked, and as expected, it did not respond.  _Why thank you. Do not mind if I do._

He cast a spell over himself. Invisibility was fallible, and so instead he created over himself the image of a young Ra'zac, dressed as all the rest were, and then he barred his mind from all intrusions. As far as any would be concerned, his mind would be just as hollow as the Ra'zac he had inspected. It was a formidable disguise, but any physical contact would blow his cover in an instant. An illusion could trick the eyes but not the body.

Murtagh navigated across the mountain ledges, staying out of sight, until he reached the very edge of the city. Below, Ra'zac meandered around and occasionally bumped into each other, and some would pick fights with others. They were brainless and hopefully would stay that way.

Several long corridors and bridges connected various upper levels of the city. Murtagh jumped off his mountain perch and landed on one of the highest bridges. The captives were on a high level, just as he was, but several walls stood between them. Assuming an unsteady gait, he moved forward into the shadows. Most of the Ra'zac gathered on the ground level far below. It was not a stretch to say there were hundreds of them, and they seeped out of holes in walls and grew in number. Few bothered with the upper levels, making them easier for Murtagh to navigate.

Many bridges were made of wood and bound with ropes and chains, but others were carved out of stone with high sides that helped to conceal his presence. Sunlight reached through holes in the ceiling and touched all the high places, and he dodged the light whenever possible. Thankfully, the Ra'zac continued with their aimless shuffling and did not notice him.

Beyond a heavy door was a room carved out of stone. It was small, and he had to keep his head down to get through it. Ceramic dishes were shattered on the floor and pieces cracked under his heel. Not much else remained of the ones who lived here long past. Likely thieves had a hand in that.

On the other side was another vast room nearly as large as the mountain itself. There were at least ten different levels to the room, all connected by wooden stairs that spiraled along the walls. Beneath were more Ra'zac, though these were louder and more energetic. Murtagh crouched on the stone bridge to conceal most of his form from their sight, creeping along the short wall until he reached the other side. Another room waited for him, followed by another expanse. Orthíad sprawled through many mountains.

Beyond several empty guard rooms, Murtagh entered pitch black darkness. Despite the dry heat of the desert, the air had a wet and chilling bite. He allowed his disguise to vanish and created a faint red glow to light the way. Prison cells sprawled in front of him far beyond where his light shone. Most of the cells were broken and empty, save one.

A single cell remained intact at the very end of the corridor, and crammed inside were trembling, sobbing children.


	3. Unlikely Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to any and all who read! Hopefully now that I am a ways ahead with this story and hammering out chapters quite quickly, I'll be able to produce speedy updates from here on out.

 

When the light flashed on them, most of the children wailed and recoiled towards the back of the cell. Murtagh winced at their initial reaction. He crouched by the bars so he could be at their level, and their eyes shone in the faint light

"It's alright," he told them as softly as he could, yet his heart was racing. "Your parents are waiting for you. I came to take you to them." More sobbing followed, but a few older children came close to see him. "I'm going to open the door, but I need you to do exactly as I say. It's not safe here, and you must stay close to me. Understood?" A few whimpers answered him, and many more children nodded. Murtagh stood by the door and said, " _Jierda._ "

At his command, the lock and hinges crumbled away, and he moved the door aside without resistance. Even then, the children did not move.

"Are there any more of you?" he asked, stepping back. The oldest and bravest of the children started to follow him. A boy of about twelve and perhaps the oldest child present stepped out and shook his head.

"There were two others, but they…" And then he choked on his words.

"The monsters ate them," whimpered another boy, and he burst into tears. "We watched them!"

"They're gonna eat us, too," a little girl sobbed, and then a chorus of children began to weep in the cell.

Murtagh shuddered at the thought. Most of the children were crying now, but not the oldest boy at his side. He clasped the boy's shoulder. "How old are you?"

"Twelve, sir," answered the boy.

"And your name?"

"Norn."

"Norn," Murtagh began, and he waved a hand for the children to come out of the cell. One at a time, they complied. "You look like the eldest here, so I need your help. Are you brave enough?"

The boy sniffled but then nodded. "Yes, sir."

"I want you to follow at the back and make sure no one falls behind. Understood?" Murtagh continued to hold his shoulder until Norn agreed. "Good. You are my second in command. I am counting on you."

At his words, Norn straightened and his chest swelled. The boy immediately stepped back and allowed the others to go ahead of him. Murtagh went into the cell and lifted smaller children that refused to move, scooting them out of the cell. Others he lifted into the arms of older children. Mere infants—they had captured  _infants_ , children that could not even walk. Murtagh's stomach churned. Slave traders, Ra'zac, and whoever else played a role in this deserved to be put in the ground.

Stepping out and ahead of the group, Murtagh resisted his own inclination to panic. These were  _children,_ helpless children, and they were all counting on him now to get them out alive. It was a long way back to freedom.

"Listen," Murtagh told them. Surprisingly, the sobs lightened. "You need to be quiet, and you need to follow close to me. Hold onto those around you and do not let go, do not fall behind." It took a little effort, but he managed a reassuring smile. "Your parents are waiting."

"It's scary," whimpered a child, and a dozen heads bobbed in agreement. A few began to cry again.

"Yes, but I know magic," Murtagh told them, and he smiled and twirled a ball of light in the air on his fingertips, allowing it to burst into a spray of colorful droplets that fizzled out just over their heads. The children jumped and, despite tears, some of them giggled. "See? I am scary, too."

"That's not scary," tittered one child, and a few others echoed them.

Murtagh exhaled as most of the sobbing ceased. With a relatively quiet bunch of children, there was some hope. He put his finger to his lips to silence them, and then he led them towards the door. Without being too obvious about it for fear of the attention it may attract, he did allow his mind to search the city once again. If there were other children, he would find them, and if there were Ra'zac nearby, he needed to know.

"Now then," he started, pausing at the heavy wooden door. "If you can do everything exactly as I do, it means you are very grown up indeed. How many of you think you can follow me all the way outside?"

A chorus of children chimed in with "Me!" or "I can!" A few genuinely sounded happy now. How resilient they were.

"Come," Murtagh told them.

Keeping aware of his surroundings, he led them through several rooms and down empty corridors. Besides the patter of their footsteps and the occasional whimper of an infant, the children were shockingly quiet. They were, in fact, mimicking him perfectly. They followed his footsteps, touched doors wherever he touched and several children copied the movement of his arms and head as well as his feet.

When they reached the first expanse with a stone walkway across, he shuffled close and then crouched. All of the children did exactly as he did.

The Ra'zac screeched below, and from the sound of things, a few were fighting. Whenever they made a loud noise, the children jumped.

Murtagh managed another smile, feigned though it was. "Now we should play a game. How many of you are good at hiding?" A few children popped up, but the rest continued to cower. One little girl was trying to crawl under his arm. "We are going to sneak across—" he began, and he struggled to keep his voice calm. "—by crawling like worms as quickly and quietly as we can."

"I ate a worm once," spoke up a boy, and a few children giggled.

Murtagh exhaled a laugh and then said, "Who can be the sneakiest worm in all of Alagaësia?"

At first he had no volunteers, and then a little boy with bright red hair and eerie crimson eyes stepped forward. He was perhaps only five or six, but his expression was fierce. Without saying a word, the boy crawled onto the walkway, dropped to his stomach and began wriggling across.

"Just like that," Murtagh said, and he ushered more children after him.

Older ones went first, and then younger ones followed. Whenever he could, he placed very small children on the backs of older ones so that they would be carried across. Murtagh followed Norn until they safely reached the other side.

"Sneaky bunch you are," Murtagh told them, taking the lead once again. "No one will ever catch you like that. You must always win hiding games." At that remark, their faces brightened, and a few of the children squirmed at the praise. "Come."

Murtagh led the children through several rooms and across another expanse of stone walkways and wood bridges. This time, the children were eager to show off their sneaking skills, and it took very little persuasion to get them across. They were almost to the edge of the city, and between them and freedom stood only one small corridor and one vast expanse.

The corridor was empty. The bridge on the other side was not.

Murtagh opened the door and found three Ra'zac on the wood bridge. The Ra'zac closest to the door shrieked at them and made the children scream and scatter backwards. Murtagh yanked the door shut, shouted for the children to stop—and they did—and then simply kicked the door out and hit the nearest Ra'zac with it. As that Ra'zac stumbled, Murtagh kicked it into the two behind it.

" _Brisingr!"_  he said, and a burst of fire struck the trio and made them topple over the side of the bridge. Countless more Ra'zac climbed up the walls and up ropes like insects. They had been figured out. Murtagh flagged the children down, and now he did not hide his urgency. "Run to the other side! Go!"

Hysterical children darted across the bridge until a Ra'zac jumped off a high wall and barred their path. Murtagh caught it with magic, lifted it, and hurled it down several stories, hopefully to its death. Norn tried to usher several smaller children across the bridge, but they were petrified. Murtagh pushed Norn ahead, snatched up a child under each arm, and followed.

Several Ra'zac hopped onto the bridge and chased them. Murtagh used a slew of magical words to fend them off, tossing some, freezing others, and simply blowing them up. Even with the help of the being in his mind, it was taking its toll on him. As they reached the other side, the walls were covered with Ra'zac.

To Murtagh's horror, there was no exit. He had jumped in through the ceiling, and it was too high for them to reach. They were on a ledge that wrapped around the room, and Ra'zac closed in from every side. The children cowered behind him as Murtagh blew Ra'zac off the walls and off ledges to keep them from reaching them.

They were so close, and he was not about to lose now.

So close. The outer wall of the city and of the mountain was right in front of them. Pushing the children aside, he pressed his hand against the stone barring them from freedom. Hastily he sifted through all of the ancient words he knew and what might be close enough to be useful. It was a gamble. He attempted an assortment of words until he found one that worked sufficiently, and the wall exploded outward. Murtagh's strength melted out of him. Apparently, the wall had been thicker than he anticipated.

Sunlight greeted them through the tunnel he had created. Murtagh ushered the children through and turned to kick one of the Ra'zac in the head as it dove in after them.

All of his frustration boiled to the surface as the nasty creatures crowded in the tunnel. Murtagh blasted the Ra'zac back and then used a spell to grip the stone that made up the very foundations of the city. Normally, one used such powers to pull metals out of the earth or small things of that nature, but he had other plans. Using the strength of the stowaway in his head, he tore the stones out of place, and the walls of the city began to crumble. Ra'zac flipped through the air as they lost their grip.

Murtagh spun into the tunnel and then staggered to one knee. Even as he fell, the world kept spinning. Suddenly, he could not catch his breath, and sweat ran down his skin. Just a little more. They were not out yet. Forcing himself back to his feet, he joined the children outside.

They were high up on a mountain with no way down. Even as the city crumbled behind them, Ra'zac shrieked and pursued them. One could not tell their angry cries from the sounds of those dying in the collapse. Murtagh scanned their surroundings for an exit, and the safest route would be straight down and through the pass. Carting thirty children was the difficult part, and now at least five children were clinging to him and grabbing for his hands.

A piercing shriek caused all of the children to fall to their knees and cower, and even Murtagh covered his ears. His head snapped to the right.

Standing atop a narrow ledge on the other end of the city was a Lethrblaka larger than any dragon save perhaps Shruikan. Its body was lean and sharp, and its leathery wings unfurled and shadowed nearly the entire valley below. It raised its jagged head and bellowed again, and the children screamed. The sound echoed and sent boulders rolling down mountainsides. It turned its beady black eyes in their direction.

Murtagh's heart sank to the pit of his stomach. It was all or nothing now. He usurped as much power as he could from the sleeping consciousness in his head, then simply spoke a word and picked the children up and moved them with magic. Rather, he simply threw them across the valley through the air. The Lethrblaka snarled and roared again, then crouched as though to jump. Murtagh, without thinking, snapped a word in its direction, and the ledge it stood on crumbled. The monstrous creature roared and tumbled into a pile of stone. For good measure, Murtagh pushed a few boulders on its head.

All the while, the children floated away, and Murtagh had no idea how he managed to do both at the same time. He jumped through the air after them, speeding them away by magic.

Behind them, Ra'zac wailed as the city fell, and the Lethrblaka roared. It was a terrifying sound.

\-----

It was probably a strange sight: thirty children and a man being flung through the air. Murtagh did not have the proper mental capacity to fully appreciate the humor in it, though. Beyond the mountains, he found the other retreating civilians and abruptly set the children down near enough for them to find each other. By the time he put himself down, his strength was gone and he hit the sand hard, face first. Only after breathing in a mouthful of sand did he have enough awareness to turn his head.

Every inch of him hurt, his ears were ringing, and he was absolutely, completely  _useless._  His body refused to move. He had expended significant amounts of strength before, but this was something entirely different. Death was not near—no, of this he was certain. Even with the fog over his mind, his consciousness was not fading away. Rather, it was as though every bone in his body was broken and every muscle, tendon, and ligament had been disconnected. The pain was severe, and nothing would ever work again.

A lot of voices were shouting nearby, both young and old, and he recognized the sounds of celebration. Naturally, he had turned his head the other direction and saw only sand and blue sky. Murtagh sputtered out a laugh. That was not a very heroic return. The children are rescued, and behold! The one who saved them falls on his face in the dirt. At least he never claimed to be graceful.

A small pair of hands began shaking him. Apparently, he was expected to move. His arms pushed him off the ground, but his vision blurred immediately. He froze and stared at the ground. If he had eaten recently, he definitely would have vomited. A few extra pairs of hands were touching him then, and finally he flipped himself over and landed on his back. The sand would be a sufficient place to take a nap.

"Drink," said a woman's voice, and someone was attempting to lift his head. Water was offered, and while he hesitated to take anything without first checking for poison, he could not resist. It soothed his throat, and cool relief washed over him. His body was burning.

"He uses magic," said someone else in exclamation. "I told you!"

A bunch of people muttered all at once, and Murtagh ignored them. As his vision cleared, he recognized several faces looming over him. The older lady from before was offering him water, and the little boy with red hair and eyes was supporting his head. A few others walked by, including a few children. Finally, the man with a limp came and stood over him.

"Can you move?"

Did he  _want_  to, was the better question. Murtagh rubbed his face. Once again, he was covered in sand.

Agonizing pain ripped through every muscle as he attempted to sit up, but that did not stop him from trying. He paused only when the man offered his hand. Murtagh accepted and allowed him to haul him to his feet, and he remained standing only with the man's support. The boy with red hair pressed against his side as if to keep him upright.

"I know little of magic," began the man, and despite his hard and weathered face, he smirked. "But I am of the opinion you were doing it wrong." Murtagh had to laugh, and it ached deep in his lungs. The man released him and opted instead to clasp Norn's shoulder. "You rescued my boy, and for that I am grateful. May I ask your name?"

Murtagh hesitated to answer. Two women and a man approached and distracted him, and their faces were long, their lips pressed thin.

"Our children," began one of the women, and she wrung the fabric of her dress. "They are not here…"

Norn and several of the children went quiet, and a heavy atmosphere settled over them all. Murtagh's expression must have said enough, for one of the women broke down and began to cry, burying herself in the arms of the man with her. He wept, too. Murtagh met eyes with the other woman and shook his head.

"They were already gone," he told them.

The embracing couple fell at his words, but the first woman maintained her composure as best as she could. With tears in her eyes, she said, "Thank you. Thank you for doing what you did." Then she turned away.

Fate was such a cruel thing. Why did any have to perish, and what twist of fate spared thirty and took away two? Now these parents would have to go on knowing all survived but their own. While Murtagh was glad for those who survived, his heart ached for those who had been lost and for the ones they left behind.

Before he could think of anything to say, for words were hardly sufficient anyhow, the scream of a Lethrblaka silenced their reunion. Murtagh scanned the horizon for any trace of it, finding nothing in the sky or around the mountains, and then he nodded towards the carts.

"We need to move."

No one asked questions. Children were loaded into the carts and the horses were pressed into motion. Those who were on their feet began at a brisk pace to keep up. Murtagh followed at the rear because he was tired but also because he would have to find some way to protect them if they were pursued. The boy with red hair stayed close and frequently looked back at him but never said a word.


	4. Reunited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Thanks for reading~ You all are SUPER amazing!
> 
> Random thoughts for the day: I'm getting really excited about the upcoming book of short stories, The Fork, the Witch, and the Worm! December 31st can't come soon enough! I've already come to the conclusion that Murtagh's story will be a vision that Eragon sees and that they won't actually meet/talk, and I'm a bit bummed about that... but I'm REALLY excited to see some Murtagh/Thorn interaction. Oh, and Murtagh being a dork... because the world legitimately needs a lot more of that. Heh.

Desert eventually gave way to grassy plains and sparse forests. By nightfall the following day, they returned to civilization and found the lights of a city speckling the horizon. Judging by its size, it was Lithgow, a fortified city to the north of Aberon. Murtagh had never personally been to the city, but he was familiar with it from his studies. Something so close to the capital of Surda was worth being informed about.

Murtagh's pain had finally subsided and been replaced by heavy exhaustion. Despite the urging of several of the civilians, he did not take any of their food, and even when he took a turn to rest on one of the carts, he could not sleep. The threat of the Lethrblaka and his discomfort around people he did not trust made it a near impossible task. Whenever his legs were rested enough, he surrendered his place on the cart to someone who  _could_  sleep and went back to the tail end of the group to keep watch.

The little boy with crimson hair always stayed close save only the times when he went to sleep on a cart.

Lithgow grew on the horizon as the first rays of light colored the sky. The city had a stone wall surrounding it, but it also had many gates and roads leading inside. It was both protected and open. Guards gathered near the gates and kept watch over them, wary of the miniature exodus. Many of the people heaved sighs of relief and walked more quickly when they realized they had almost reached safety.

So close, but never close enough. Murtagh groaned when the Lethrblaka's shrill cry echoed across the desert. In the waning darkness, its form, black as night, blotted out the stars. Several people screamed and ran for shelter in the city, and Murtagh did not blame them. His stomach dropped. Even with his excess power, he would never win in a direct fight with a Lethrblaka.

The Lethrblaka shot across the sky. It bellowed again once it was high above them, and then it curled its wings and plummeted straight at them. Murtagh shouted at the people to run towards Lithgow. He, on the other hand, ran away. Whether the Lethrblaka noticed him or not was irrelevant. He would make himself known soon enough.

As expected, the monstrosity went for the vast group of people, spreading its claws to snatch up its feast. Murtagh used the very same spell he had used to move the children and caught the Lethrblaka in the air. The Lethrblaka was not a willing victim and roared and thrashed against him, making it nearly impossible to maintain the spell. Instead of trying, Murtagh hurled the creature over his head and to the ground, standing in the space between it and the people. His legs nearly buckled beneath him as the spell sapped his meager energy. Black spots flashed across his vision. People were screaming and the Lethrblaka hissed, but all the sounds blended together like a muted hum.

Murtagh drew his sword as the massive black creature stomped across the ground, snapping its beak at him and whipping its tail behind it. There was very little hope of him being more than a minor nuisance to this massive creature, and there was absolutely no chance of defeating it. Still, he searched it for a weakness of some kind—any kind—and found nothing. Its body was covered with thick, tightly knitted skin like armor, and the few places that may have been vulnerable would be incredibly difficult to reach. It was near impossible.

However, Murtagh was not one to simply lie down and accept defeat.

The Lethrblaka snapped at him, and he parried its beak with his sword. It tried several successive jabs, but Murtagh deflected each, ducked, and then swung at the creature's exposed neck. His blade harmlessly bounced off thick skin. The Lethrblaka snarled and tried stepping on him, but he slipped between its claws and stabbed at the inside of its legs. Again, his blade only met solid resistance and clanged as if striking metal.

As Murtagh rolled out from underneath the creature, flaming arrows launched from the city. They pattered across the Lethrblaka's back and hardly made it turn its head. Murtagh took a few more swings at its hind leg and tail, drawing its attention back to him, and reengaged it in battle. Its sharp beak pecked at him several times, forcing him backwards, and then Murtagh swung swiftly in an attempt to cut its eye. The Lethrblaka jerked its head aside at the last instant and met the blade with its beak—and Murtagh's sword shattered.

Pain jolted through his arms, and he dropped the sword and fell back. The Lethrblaka swung its tail in a wide arc and forced him to the ground. He took notice of a few stones burrowed in the dirt, about the size of a man's head, and using magic he lifted them and hurled them at the Lethrblaka. It snarled as two pelted it innocuously in the head but a third Murtagh planted in its lidless eye. With the last of his strength, he pressed it straight through the eye and deep into its head. The Lethrblaka roared, thrashed against the ground, and then jumped at him with claws extended. Murtagh narrowly slipped between its talons, though its weight pressed him into the sand, and then the creature leapt off the ground and took to the sky.

Murtagh lay on the ground as it flew away. His attack would by no means kill the Lethrblaka, but its hasty retreat was a victory nonetheless. It roared all the while, shaking the ground with its shrill voice, until it was far away and sounded like distant thunder. Murtagh did not move even after it had gone. Humans clamored near the city.

His vision blurred, but he resisted sleep. Turning his head, he watched as the boy with crimson hair ran to him and fell at his side. The child was trying to help him up, but Murtagh swatted him away. His body ached and he did not want to move. Finally, though, he sat upright, and the boy clung to him. Even so, the child's expression was fierce—angry? Murtagh frowned.

"Go find your parents," Murtagh grumbled, grabbing the boy's grubby, oversized shirt and shoving him back towards the people. Now the child swatted  _his_  hand and scowled. "Go now. Get."

The boy ignored him and continued to hold onto him.

Most of the rescued civilians were stuck at the gate of the city, and guards were questioning them. Murtagh could not make out most of the conversations due to the persistent ringing in his ears. Someone was telling the guards how people and horses were flying everywhere.

Hm. Murtagh must have missed the flying horses.

One of the women in the group came towards him, her expression soft, and several other people were watching him. "Are you injured?" asked the woman, but she remained at a distance. Everyone was afraid of him now, it seemed.

"I'm fine," Murtagh said. Even so, he could not get off the ground. Everything was spinning, and he knew better than to try. Casually, he pressed the child towards her and said, "Are his parents here?"

"This boy?" the woman accepted the child and placed a hand on each of his shoulders, but her brow wrinkled and his lips turned down. "He is an orphan, I am afraid. He was taken last of all, after the rest of us were captured. The traders found him on the road with nothing to him, naked as the day he was born. Can't speak a word, either."

The child frowned deeply and wormed his way out of her grasp, stomping back to Murtagh. He planted a bare foot on either side of Murtagh, grabbed the sides of Murtagh's face, and then exhaled sharply into Murtagh's hair with a snort. All the while, Murtagh blinked in confusion.

Did the boy just  _sneeze_  on him?

"I will see about finding someone to look after him," said the woman with a peculiar expression.

"Thank you," Murtagh grumbled, and she simply nodded and walked away.

Meanwhile, the boy continued to squeeze his face and stared into his eyes. His hair color was a bizarre shade of red, but his crimson eyes were definitely unnatural. They were fierce—this child was definitely a fighter. Finally, the boy released him and stepped aside, and Murtagh watched the crowd. Several people pointed at him on multiple occasions.

"Well, well," said a voice behind him, making Murtagh jump. "Murtagh Morzansson."

Murtagh was on his feet in an instant, spinning to find a woman standing at his back. His dizziness got the better of him, though, and he staggered and landed again on the ground. The woman smiled almost playfully at him. Her curly brown hair framed her face.

"You were with Eragon," he breathed. She had definitely been with the Varden, though he knew nothing of her more than that. The little boy that refused to leave him set a hand on his shoulder.

"Was I?" she asked, tapping a finger to her cheek as if she truly had no idea. Then she tipped her head. "And now I am with you." The woman reached into a satchel at her side and knelt beside him, offering him a scroll tied with red string. Murtagh frowned at it but did not take it. She waved it in front of his face. "If you would, please, deliver this to Jeod in Aroughs. I prefer you not read it, but being that I know you will, I suppose I should simply tell you to tie it up when you are finished. I do prefer to appear professional, after all."

"Why would I do that?" Murtagh scowled at her, leaning away from the scroll.

"Because I will do a favor for you, and of course one favor should be reciprocated by another," said the woman, and she twirled the scroll in her hand. Then, she took Murtagh's wrist, turned his palm, and set the scroll upon it. Her face contorted for a moment, and her tone turned harsh. "Although you are heading there and it would be kind enough of you to do the task without my having to earn it. But one cannot expect free help nowadays, I suppose." Rising, the woman flapped her hand at the boy, pressing her lips briefly into a thin line. "Come here, child."

The boy hesitated but finally stepped around Murtagh and presented himself to the woman. She muttered a few things to herself and then crouched in front of him, tapping a finger across her lips.

"It seems your tongue is tied," she commented, and then she twirled her finger in the air. "I suppose I can help with that. Here, allow me." Quick and hard, she poked the boy on the nose. He stepped back and rubbed his face, and she laughed at him. "No, I suppose that will not do." Her expression softened, and it was the first genuine look Murtagh saw of her. "You learned to walk, but learning to talk the language of humans is an entirely different challenge. Is that not right, Thorn?"

Thorn! Murtagh's mouth parted.

The woman smiled, muttered to herself, and then poked the boy on the forehead. Light rippled across his skin and then disappeared. The child sputtered to himself, made a few unintelligible sounds, and then spun and faced Murtagh, eyes wide.

"Murtagh!" he said loudly and clearly, and then the boy grabbed Murtagh's shoulders and squeezed, nearly sending them both into the dirt. "Are you unwell?" Then the child's expression turned ferocious, and now Murtagh recognized it clearly. He  _was_  angry. "You were careless! What were you thinking?"

"Th-Thorn?" Murtagh stammered, and though he immediately believed it, how  _could_  he? "Is that really you?"

"It is, worry not," said the woman, drawing their attention back to her. Briefly, her expression was warm. "He was concerned for you… as anyone should be after watching you just now. Do you realize how small you are? You would hardly make a suitable treat for a Lethrblaka."

"Who  _are_  you?" Murtagh growled, and she just smiled at him again, her eyes shining.

"A friend of a friend," she answered, and then she thought carefully about it. "No… perhaps an acquaintance of a brother… or an acquaintance of an acquaintance… It really is hard to tell who you are to anyone at this point." Then her expression hardened, and she set her hands on her hips. "You will take that to Jeod for me now, correct? Visiting him in Aroughs should be beneficial to you as well." Murtagh frowned at the scroll and then bought it close to his body as a show of acceptance. The woman straightened and smiled. "Very good. And Murtagh…" Folding her arms across her chest, she leaned down, face to face with him. "Do keep attempting to scry Eragon. One of these times, you may find him."

Murtagh's mouth parted in a sharp exhale. Shouting near the crowd distracted him.

A few guards were separating from the group and walking in his direction. The man with the limp, the father of Norn, was waving his hands in the air emphatically. It was from his lips that Murtagh heard, "I am certain of it. I was enslaved by Galbatorix, you know. He is Murtagh, the son of Morzan!

More shouting and muttering followed, but Murtagh stopped listening. His stomach sank, and immediately he hopped to his feet. This time, he stayed there. To his surprise, the curly-haired woman was gone, and not even a footprint remained where she had been. He would worry about it later.

Murtagh scanned their surroundings, snatched Thorn under an arm, and sprinted towards one of the slave trader's carts that had been pulled aside and abandoned. People started shouting, and a guard ran in his direction.

"Stop!" called the guard.

With a quick word, Murtagh broke the cart, freed a horse, and leapt onto its back, plopping Thorn in front of him. Pressing the horse into motion, they took off in a swift gallop. There was a lot of yelling behind them now, but he did not look back. They raced across the grassy plain and into the cover of forest long before any could follow, and even then, he did not stop.

Only when they were deep in the forest and the horse had troubling moving did Murtagh slow their pace again, and by then the sun was high in the sky. The shadows wobbled as wind rustled the leaves. Murtagh's vision blurred. The fluttering leaves gave the world the appearance of spinning. The lack of food and sleep and the excessive use of magic probably did not help. And as he recalled those very things, up became down, and brown and green spun around him.

The reins slipped from between his fingers. Tiny hands flailed at his sides, and then he blacked out.

\-----

It was almost dark when Murtagh opened his eyes. For a long while, he stared blankly at a tree ahead of him until eventually his gaze wandered up the trunk to the branches and foliage. Even though it was a warm climate, the leaves were turning bright yellow as though in autumn. Raising his head, he noticed that many trees appeared as such. Had they not been green before?

"Lie still," said a child's voice, and Thorn materialized beside him. His dragon companion, now in the body of a human child, pressed his small hand on Murtagh's head and held him down. Murtagh did not have the energy to fight him and remained on his side. Thorn kept a hand on his head and set the other on his shoulder. "Do you have any injuries?"

"No."

Thorn shifted, looking Murtagh over, and then leaned in front of him, frowning at him face to face. It was a child's face but a dragon's expression, and it was most frightening. "How could you use magic like that? Without me—without Eldunarí or anything of the sort—you should not be alive! What were you thinking?"

Murtagh smiled wryly. "I was thinking I did not want to be eaten." Slowly, he pushed himself off the ground despite Thorn's protests. The dragon was quite tiny now and could do little to keep him in the dirt. Once he was sitting, he noticed his cloak had been unraveled and laid over him for warmth. Their stolen horse was tied to a nearby tree.

"Here." Thorn took a drinking skin and offered it to Murtagh along with a small bundle of dried meat. "They were in the saddlebag."

Murtagh accepted them and ate and drank. It was not an extravagant meal, but it took the edge off his headache and general weakness. Half he saved for Thorn, whether his partner would accept them or not. As he ate, they watched each other in silence. It was a wonder Murtagh did not recognize him soon. The crimson eyes of this child were very  _not_  human, and all of his expressions and mannerisms were familiar. Even snorting in his hair—Thorn would often prod at him like that, sometimes to be a nuisance but more often than not as a sign of affection. It shamed him that he did not recognize it.

"What happened to you?" Murtagh finally asked.

Thorn settled on his knees, squinting. Uncomfortably he squirmed, and then he closed his eyes. "I am not certain. As I saw you fall, I also fell. Then I felt a spell touch me—it was yours—and then I saw only darkness. When I awoke, I was like this."

Guilt washed over Murtagh, and he sank back and leaned on one arm. Bringing the other hand up, he rubbed his eyes in exhaustion. "It was my fault." Leaning forward, he covered his face with both hands. "I tried to cast a spell to protect you, but I must have made a mistake. Now you—"

"No," Thorn stated abruptly, shaking his head. "The spell was sound. It was only because I had already fallen that it did not affect me as it should have."

"And your true body?" Murtagh wanted to believe him, but he still blamed himself. It had been foolish on his part to try such hasty and complicated spells. Power had made him careless.

After giving it some thought, Thorn patted his chest. "Safe.  _Sealed._ "

"My spell did do it—" started Murtagh, exasperated.

"I am safe, Murtagh. You did not harm me," Thorn told him. Then he smiled, and even though he had the soft features of a child, there was something feral about it. "Furthermore, I believe the others  _were_  protected by your spell. As I fell, I saw the lights flee and protection fall over Saphira and the rest of my kin." Gently, he added, "You did the best you could given the circumstances."

With a growl, Murtagh ran his hands over his face again and messed up his hair. Then his hands fell between his knees, weakness creeping over him. That seemed to be all he was ever capable of—doing the best he could given unfortunate circumstances, but his  _best_  was hardly ever good enough. Thorn had suffered enough on account of him as it was.

"You should rest," said Thorn, and he patted the ground in suggestion. Soft features once again turned sharp and fierce. "You strained your body and mind considerably." With a growl that was definitely more dragon than human, he added, "Do not do it again."

Murtagh smirked and slid back to the ground on his back. Thorn took the remaining food and water back to the saddlebag and then returned to his side. His partner watched him briefly and then paced the area until after dark. All the while, Murtagh could not fall asleep and fretted over what other trouble his spell may have caused. Thorn's pacing did not help and only made him more anxious.

"Something is troubling you?" Murtagh asked, propping himself up again.

Thorn stopped and frowned at him. Small children should not make such contorted faces. He began pacing again, winding his arms over his chest. Flatly, Thorn said, "I do not know what to do."

Murtagh bit one side of his lip to keep from smirking. Then, displaying the actions as he went, he said, "Bend at the knees. We call it 'sitting'." This earned him another growl. Chuckling, he held up his hands in surrender and asked softly, "What do you mean?"

"I am not familiar with being… weak," Thorn stated after careful consideration. "In our travels, I was accustomed to keeping watch over you. In this body, there is very little I can do to support you." The child stretched out his thin arms, turning his hand over in the air. "Such frail limbs you humans have. And you are always hungry, and your emotions are ruled by your lack of sleep. How do you accomplish anything?"

"Thank you," began Murtagh, leaning back. "For making me feel proud to be human." When Thorn's frown only deepened at his tone, he tapped the ground beside him. "It cannot be helped. Sit." Rather than obey, the child huffed and began to pace more quickly. "Thorn."

Finally, Thorn stormed over to him and sat. He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. Frustrated, he said, "Very well, but you must sleep before me."

"Why?"

"It is my responsibility to watch over your sleep."

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. "And what will you do if someone attempts to approach me while I sleep?"

Thorn considered it carefully and nonchalantly replied, "I will bite them."

Murtagh did not doubt it for an instant. He chuckled and then lay down, folding his arm under his head. Silence followed, but not for long. Thorn began to fidget, and then suddenly the child tossed an arm over Murtagh. The size difference was significant and it was not particularly effective.

"Thorn," Murtagh started.

As a dragon, Thorn would often cover him with a wing when they rested, both for warmth and for protection. Surely this was an attempt at mimicking that. Thorn shifted and folded his entire body over Murtagh.

"Is it helping?" Thorn asked seriously, and Murtagh had to restrain a laugh.

"Not particularly."

Nevertheless, Thorn remained as he was. Murtagh shifted under his weight, heaved a sigh, and went back to sleep.


	5. Scholar of Aroughs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading-I hope you will continue to enjoy this story. Have a great one!

When Murtagh awoke, it was early in the morning. He had rolled onto his back at some point in the night, but Thorn remained a permanent fixture over his person. The child was snoring, and Murtagh did not have the heart to wake him. The autumn colors of the trees over his head brightened as the sun's light washed over them. Many leaves had fallen around them in the night. Thorn stirred and popped up, wide awake, and Murtagh left him to go hunting. He brought back two rabbits, as well as acceptable vegetation for the horse, and then they settled down to eat.

Thorn asked, "Are we going to Aroughs?"

"Yes," Murtagh answered. He leaned back against the trunk of a tree and pulled the tied scroll out of his belt where he had tucked it. Now that his head was clear, his curiosity was aroused. Untying the scroll, he opened and read it.

"What does it say?" Thorn leaned close.

"'Jeod, I can confirm your observations across the whole of Alagaësia. The dead have risen, the living have perished, and magic is becoming unpredictable'," began Murtagh, reading the scroll aloud. "'The seasons are changing. Be on guard against those who have been bound to shadows'." At the bottom of the short note was signed the name Angela.

"What does that mean?" Thorn asked, and then he scowled. "The disturbance in energy that I felt… it must have something to do with that. The spirits—"

"Spirits!" Murtagh interjected with a start. Of course! The beings that had attacked them, the creature of great magic that resided in his head, very suddenly, it all made much more sense. "They are spirits!"

"Yes, I believe so." Thorn shifted.

"We should go to Aroughs and meet with his Jeod," Murtagh confirmed. He tied the scroll again and then rose, placing it in the saddlebag. Unfastening the empty sheath of Zar'roc from his belt, he bound it to the saddle, safe and secure, and then he patted the horse. Facing Thorn, he said, "Afterwards, I intend to take a ship to Narda, and from there I will go to Ellesméra."

"You intend to ask the elves to take you to the dragons?" Thorn rose and shook his body. When dirt and leaves continued to stick on his skin and clothes, he brushed himself off with his hands.

Murtagh nodded. "Arya should be there as well, and she can help look for Eragon if he has not already returned to them."

Thorn stared at him in quiet, and so Murtagh untied the horse and climbed into the saddle. He offered a hand to his small companion, and Thorn accepted his help onto the horse. As they proceeded, Thorn commented, "You are worried about him." When Murtagh did not respond, Thorn leaned into him. "I worry for my kin as well."

"I'm sorry, Thorn," whispered Murtagh. Guilt twisted like a dagger in his chest. If his spells had done this to Thorn, then there was a good chance it had negative effects on all of them, dragon and elf alike.

Thorn tipped his head back and looked up at him, his face scrunched. "Why do you apologize? If those spirits were opposed to us as it seems they were… your actions alone may have been the only thing that saved any of us."

Murtagh offered a slight nod, but he did not necessarily agree. He made a rash decision, and now Thorn had lost his body, Eragon was missing, and the status of the rest of the dragons was questionable. Not only that, but the message from Angela to Jeod was troubling. What of the dead rising and the living perishing? Hopefully Jeod would shed some light on things.

And so, Murtagh directed their course and set off for Aroughs in the southwest of Surda.

\-----

Aroughs was a thriving port city bursting with life. It was one of the main connecting points between Surda and the rest of the Empire. Its tall walls were imposing, and surely it had been quite the battlefield during the war, but now the city was a massive center of trade and bustling activity. Most of the citizens hurried about as though nothing had happened one year prior.

Murtagh tied his hair back and discarded his cloak outside the city in an attempt to look less like a vagabond. Hopefully having Thorn with would work to his benefit and not against him. The city guards were not impressed by his appearance, but when Murtagh flashed a few expensive gems at them, they let him pass without asking further questions.

"What do you intend to do with those stones?" Thorn asked as Murtagh tucked them back into the pouch on his belt.

"I will trade them," Murtagh explained. "We need supplies and a way to Narda."

"Are those the last of what you took from Urû'baen?"

Murtagh nodded and then smiled weakly. "Soon I will be a beggar, it seems."

"You can hunt, so you will survive," answered Thorn, monotone.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Murtagh shifted his weight to one leg. He smirked. "You have been doing wonders for my confidence lately."

Thorn stopped and, with a stone-cold expression, said, "You will never become a beggar."

"Thanks."

In the city center was an enormous bazaar where people from around Alagaësia peddled their wares. Several people approached them to try to sell items, but most took one look at Murtagh and went elsewhere. One or two people tried to sell trinkets and toys to Thorn, but he growled at them and quickly made them scatter. Eventually, most people avoided them.

"You should try to behave like a child," Murtagh told Thorn. He scanned the different shops for things that might prove useful on their trip. A change of clothes was starting to sound appealing. "You look strange enough as it is. We should avoid drawing unnecessary attention to ourselves."

"Like a child," echoed Thorn, his eyes wide. When the next peddler approached them with extravagant clothes, the child exclaimed, "Please ask my father!" All the while, he smiled wide and bobbed back and forth. The peddler frowned, took one look at Murtagh, and then left them. Thorn dropped the act and looked up at Murtagh. "Was that acceptable?"

Murtagh's cheeks burned, and he dropped his head into his hand. Scowling, he asked, "How old do you think I am?  _Father?_ " With a sigh, he pressed into the crowd. Thorn snatched the back of his shirt and tailed him. "Brother would suffice. Uncle, even. But no. You are the illegitimate child that I fathered when I was fifteen."

Thorn had nothing else to say on the matter and simply followed along. Eventually, Murtagh felt the pull on his shirt cease, and he turned. Thankfully, Thorn's hair was bright and made him easy to find as the child wandered through the crowd toward a cart selling meat. He was sniffing the air, and his feline eyes were wide and bright.

"What is that smell?" he asked aloud. "It smells wonderful!"

Upon reaching the cart, Thorn reached for a piece of meat. Murtagh grabbed the back of his oversized shirt and pulled him aside before he could touch one. "We have nothing to exchange for this, or did you forget one of the reasons why we are here?"

Murtagh pulled Thorn aside and then continued forward. The grip on his shirt was gone a second later, and Murtagh found Thorn smelling the air and wandering in a different direction. A second time, Murtagh collected him and hauled him back. The third time Thorn wandered, Murtagh released an exasperated sigh.

"Thorn!"

The child hovered near another cart of food, smelling it with bright eyes. Murtagh simply wrapped his arms around him and lifted him, carrying him away from all the distractions. Thorn kicked his feet in the air and dangled over Murtagh's arms.

"Everything smells good. And so different." After a moment of contemplation, Thorn sniffed Murtagh's arms. "You smell different as well." After a pause, he added, "I think you need a bath."

"I think I am going to throw you off a bridge," followed Murtagh with a leer, and his companion growled at him and said nothing else. Murtagh eventually put him down again lest he look like a kidnapper, but he held fast to Thorn's wrist and did not let him wander. After checking the different shops available, Murtagh approached one near the end of the bazaar. The trader's lip twitched as they approached, but he at least made eye contract. Murtagh asked, "Where might I exchange gems for crowns?"

Now the trader was definitely giving him a once over. The heavy man even leaned forward and looked over his stall to get the full picture. Murtagh gave it time to sink in: his dirty and tattered traveling clothes, his worn boots, his unkempt hair and unshaven face, and the grime on his skin from rolling in sand and dust a few too many times. Certainly not the sort to be carrying any item worth anything. Next to him was Thorn, a child with wild hair and eyes, an enormous shirt, and nothing else.

"Check with Helen," answered the trader, and his tone was to the point. The sooner Murtagh was out of his way, the sooner he might have worthwhile customers. "She's in the large house near the docks."

"Thank you."

It took everything in Murtagh not to flash some expensive stones at the man and make him feel foolish for making assumptions. Instead, he turned and tugged Thorn towards the water. There were a few ships moored at the docks, but none were coming or going. They might have to catch a ship in Feinstar. Focusing on one thing at a time, however, he veered off towards the large house mentioned by the trader. It was a home made of pale stone with long windows and well-kept gardens. Helen was apparently quite wealthy.

Murtagh knocked on the front door, and Thorn waited patiently behind him. A young woman answered, folding her hands proper over her white apron.

"I am looking for Helen," he told her. Then came the once over, and her face twisted in discomfort.

"My lady is busy now," answered the woman, curtly. She began to press the door shut. "You will have to make an appointment."

With a sigh, Murtagh pulled out a handful of small precious stones and revealed them to her. Smiling, he said, "I assure you, my business will be quick enough."

At the sight of the stones, the woman's eyes lit up. She tapped a finger to her lips and then opened the door, stepping aside and allowing him inside. Bowing only her head, she said, "Please stay here. I will call her." Then, she left the room.

Inside the house was far more extravagant than the outside. Artifacts from all around Alagaësia decorated the walls and shelves, including sculptures by dwarves and paintings by elves. Fanciful tapestries decorated otherwise plain stone walls. Beyond the entrance hall, Murtagh caught a glimpse of a table and chairs made of rich, deep wood and shelves upon shelves of books and scrolls. Just as he leaned to get a better look, two pairs of footsteps pounded on the floor, and the young woman returned with another woman at her side.

The newcomer wore extravagant jewelry and fine clothes, and her hair was well maintained and her face painted with muted colors. She was acting the part of a noble, but her mannerisms and body language suggested it was forced, as though she was trying on someone else's clothing.

"I am Helen," began the woman, and she barely deigned to look at him. Instead she focused on Thorn. "You have business with me?"

Murtagh revealed a handful of jewels to her. "How much would you offer for these?"

Helen raised an eyebrow at him, taking one of the gems in her hand. Immediately her eyes bulged, and she held the stone into the light. Its color was clear and its surface flawless. Pressing it back into his hand, she told him, "300 crowns a piece and nothing more."

"These will sell for thrice that in Aberon and four in Ilirea," Murtagh countered. "I will not part with them for anything less than 700 crowns."

"Absurd!" Helen tipped back her head and gave him a cold look. Apparently, she had not expected a common beggar to haggle. "You must be mad! I could only possibly take them for 400 or I will go out of business."

Clasping the gems tightly in his hand, Murtagh smiled and said, "I suppose I must take my business elsewhere then. Though with the cost of a trip to Aberon, I suppose I could part with them here for 600."

Her face went hard. "450."

"550 or I walk."

Helen grumbled and adjusted her gown, sticking her nose up in the air. "Disgusting little scamp you are! Taking advantage of a lady like me!" Turning, she waved her hand toward her servant. "Prepare the crowns." Facing Murtagh again, she waved for him to follow. "I will have each jewel inspected before we finalize the exchange. After all, I will not be swindled." As Murtagh followed her, she muttered, "Do be sure not to  _touch_  anything."

When she turned away, he traced his finger across the wall and left a smudge of dirt. Thorn gave him an unpleasant look and made him stop, but Murtagh was pleased.

Helen led him into a small study. Shelves of books lined the walls, and on the far side of the room in a well-lit corner was a table holding various tools. Several of them were tools to authenticate precious stones from forgeries. Helen parked herself in a chair and flagged him down. Murtagh offered the stones to her and then scanned the books on the shelves as she did an inspection.

Many of the books were rare if not impossible to obtain. Even in the vast libraries of Urû'baen, he had never encountered many of them—and these appeared to be original copies! His hand reached for a particular book with a title written in ancient script.

Abruptly, Helen snapped at him, "Do not touch."

Murtagh dropped his hand, scowled first at the book and then at her, then continued searching with eyes only. He would have happily spent hours there if he could have. Her good fortune made him a little envious. Finally, she concluded her inspection and she set down her supplies, and as if on cue, her servant returned with a satchel.

"All appear to be authentic," Helen commented, and she received the satchel and brought it to Murtagh. Once more she looked him over in contempt and then dared to ask, "Where did a man like  _you_  obtain such rare, precious stones?"

Murtagh answered with a completely straight face, "I killed a man." Then, he followed with a perfectly charming smile.

Thorn gawked at him. Helen stared in stunned silence, and the servant took a step backwards at the remark and bumped into a shelf. A few scrolls tumbled off, and she frantically put them all back into place.

"I did not ask," decided Helen, and she gave him the satchel. "Be on your way. And do keep from  _touching_  anything."

Not to be swindled, Murtagh checked the contents of the satchel to ensure he had received proper compensation. When he was certain all was well, he followed the servant back towards the entrance. Helen kept an eye on him from behind, likely to ensure he did not steal anything on the way.

"Might I ask a question?" started Murtagh as they reached the door.

The servant opened the door and did not meet eyes with him as she answered, "You may, but I am not under any obligation to answer."

"I am looking for someone named Jeod. Do you know where I might find him?"

At his question, the young woman blinked, and Helen straightened in the other room. Both pairs of eyes fixed on him and did not waver. Thorn tipped his head to the side and opened his mouth to speak but then remained silent.

"What business do you have with him?"

"Nothing personally," Murtagh answered, and then he held out the scroll for both women to see. "I am nothing more than a messenger."

"I can deliver it to him—" began the servant, but Murtagh snatched the item back. She wrinkled her face at him, and Helen snorted.

"When I accept a task, I see it through to the end." Murtagh tucked the scroll back into his belt for safe keeping.

Glancing at Helen, the servant had a wordless conversation with her mistress. Finally, she faced Murtagh again and nodded, smoothing out of the front of her apron. "The master is busy, but if you can be brief, I will show you to his study."

Jeod was her master and Helen's husband. Now things made a little more sense. Helen was not the owner of such an astounding literary collection, her  _husband_  was. If he was a learned man, then Murtagh might learn some useful information from him after all. The servant led him through the house and up a flight of stairs. The entire house was pristine and elegantly decorated. Red runners covered the dark wood floors, and paintings of all sorts decorated the walls. Most were scenes of nature, including mountains, trees, and streams. Thorn paused to appreciate several, and occasionally Murtagh could hear the pattering of his bare feet through the hall as he ran to catch up after getting distracted.

The servant stopped at a door and knocked. "Master Jeod, a messenger is here for you."

A man's voice answered through the door, "I am busy. Leave a message behind and I will receive it later." Silence followed. The servant frowned at Murtagh and waved her hand down the hall in suggestion.

"I must deliver it in person," he answered loud enough for the man inside to hear.

"Who are you?" asked the voice behind the door, and there was a hint of irritation in his tone.

"Just a messenger." Murtagh drew the scroll and tapped it on his palm. "I was sent by a woman named Angela."

From within the room arose the sound of wood scraping on wood and then heavy footsteps. Jeod opened the door, and there was a fierce look in his eyes. Compared to Helen, he was rather unkempt. His hair was in disarray and there were smudges of ink on his hands. His clothes were common. The man waved Murtagh in, and the servant bowed and departed.

"What message does she have for me?" Jeod asked in haste. He wrung his hands in front of him.

Murtagh offered him the scroll and allowed him to read it. In the meantime, he scanned the room. There was a table and chair near a long window, and on the table were piles of parchment and countless bottles of ink, most of which were empty. Shelves of scrolls and books lined every wall save one. There was a wood dresser with a ceramic jar on it, and above it on the wall hung a messy painting of what may have been a dragon. Thorn stood beneath it and stared at it.

"Impossible," Jeod breathed, and then he frowned at Murtagh. "Did you read this?"

"I did." Murtagh shifted, hanging his thumbs on his belt. "I have also noticed strange occurrences lately. What do you know of it?"

"It is as the letter says." Jeod rubbed his face and took a seat in the chair. Tossing the scroll on the table, he folded his hands over his stomach and sank. With a sigh, he explained, "Alagaësia is changing, and not for the better. Angela simply confirmed my suspicions."

Murtagh met eyes with Thorn and then looked to the dragon painting on the wall. Carefully, he said, "Magic is shifting and is causing the land to wither."

Jeod placed his hand over the table. At first he simply stared at the parchment in front of him, but his eyes darkened and his mouth pressed into a thin line, wrinkles marring his weathered face. His fingers tapped across the table in a slow, steady rhythm as he met eyes with Murtagh again.

"What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't," answered Murtagh without hesitation. Thorn stood behind Murtagh as tension built in the room.

"A man chooses not to share his name only if he has something to hide," Jeod commented, and then he folded his hands over his stomach again and leaned back in his seat. His eyes traveled over Murtagh slowly. "You look familiar somehow. Have we met?"

"No, I do not believe so." Concerned with the direction the conversation was taking, Murtagh attempted to change the subject. "What do you suppose is causing this change?"

Jeod considered the question and straightened in his chair. A sigh escaped his lips as he shuffled through his parchments for seemingly no purpose. Then he rose, leaning with one hand against the table. "I only have theories at present. I have nothing substantial to share."

The man definitely did not trust him enough to share information, but Murtagh believed him when he said he knew nothing. Jeod played the part of frustrated researcher, a man who had studied a subject from every angle and still came to no conclusion. Knowing he would not get the answers he was seeking, Murtagh patted Thorn on the head and steered him towards the door.

"Well then," he said. "We should be going."

"How do you know Angela?" Jeod asked with a slight frown.

"I met her for the first time when she gave that scroll to me." Murtagh opened the door, ushering Thorn into the hallway.

"Angela would not give a message like this to someone of little importance," countered the man, and now deep wrinkles marred his face. "Who are you?"

"Just a messenger," Murtagh replied. He paused in the open doorway. If Angela was a companion of Eragon, then it was probable Jeod was as well. He did not know what good it would serve, but he added, "When furthering your research, consider spirits."

"Spirits," Jeod echoed.

"Yes, spirits." With that, Murtagh turned to leave.

"How do you know this?"

"Just a hunch."

Not wanting to overstay his welcome, Murtagh closed the door and went down the hall with Thorn close on his heels. The servant woman met them and escorted them out of the house.


	6. Perilous Waters

Using their newly acquired funds, Murtagh went shopping. He purchased changes of clothing for both him and Thorn and various traveling supplies, including a new iron sword. Before the city gates closed for the night, they went outside to a secluded place by the water and bathed, dressing in their new garments. Murtagh shaved and made himself presentable, and then he tried to make Thorn presentable, too. The child's hair stuck up in every direction and refused to do anything else, and so he eventually gave up. They returned to the city, bringing the horse inside, and rented a room at an inn that doubled as a tavern.

Rooms were upstairs. Downstairs, sailors and travelers drank and sang and brawled. It was noisy, but at least there was a bed. They had their first hearty meal in a while, and shortly thereafter, Thorn's tiny body got the better of him and he fell asleep. Murtagh tucked him into bed and then went downstairs.

As the night went on, the tavern emptied of all but a few men, and several of them were sprawled across tables in a stupor. The boisterous chatter diminished until only faint muttering and murmuring could be heard.

Murtagh ordered a drink but swirled it in his mug without tasting it. It was a tempting form of escape, one that he had partook on many different occasions while in Urû'baen. After he had foolishly told his life story to Nasuada while drunk and after she chided him to think of what his mentor would have thought of him, Murtagh no longer enjoyed the release it gave him. It was forever sullied.

Still, it remained tempting. He swirled it several more times, and then he slid out of his chair and brought it to another table, setting it before one of the last men still conscious. The man received it from him while muttering incoherently. Murtagh said nothing and went outside.

Aroughs was quiet. A few guards patrolled the city, but their presence was insignificant. For such a southern port city, the night was peculiarly cool. Murtagh wandered through the streets without a destination. Pale moonlight illuminated the tops of stone buildings and cast long shadows on the ground. Together the darkness and silence made it seem as though the city had been abandoned.

As he was passing through a side street, he found a bucket of water set under the eaves of a house. He nearly passed it by without much thought but paused as Angela's words echoed in the back of his mind. Maybe he  _would_  find Eragon this way, and it would certainly save him a great deal of time and effort. Furthermore, knowing Eragon was  _safe_ would do wonders for the dull ache of guilt eating away at him. Crouching over the water, he cast a spell and attempted to find his missing sibling. The surface of the water turned solid black and nothing more, so he released the magic with a growl and then departed.

Passing out of the shadows into the dim lamplight of the main street, he paused. An elderly woman hobbled towards a guard, moaning and groaning as she went, and then she crumpled against him, clawing at his armor. The guard yelled at her, and then another guard came running but stood at a distance.

The woman slurred as though drunk, and the guards must have thought as much. The guard holding her was telling her to go home and to control herself, but the woman started howling, rolling in his arms.

Then her form contorted and she seized, unleashing a strangled scream, and then her body began to evaporate, fading away into a black mist. Meanwhile, the guard holding her began to shriek. The woman convulsed in his arms, her limbs fading first, then her torso and lastly her head until nothing remained of her. The guard landed solidly on his back end, holding only air. The other guard took off running.

Murtagh inhaled sharply and slipped back into the shadows, searching their surroundings from a safer vantage point. With his mind he searched for the presence of a magic user or anything else that might be capable of causing such harm, but he found nothing. Even the air into which the woman disappeared was absent of any trace of life or magic. There was a void where she had been.

_The living perished._ Angela's message had said as much. Only magic should cause this, but there was definitely no magic at play here. Cringing and jittery, he slipped through side streets and made his way to the inn.

Thorn was sleeping peacefully in their room, and seeing him gave Murtagh relief. He cast various spells of protection over them both, and then he settled at the foot of the bed and sorted through his thoughts of what he had experienced, what he had learned, and what he had just witnessed. The dead rose, the living perished, the seasons changed, and hostile spirits were loose in their world.

What a mess.

 -----

Morning came, and Murtagh slept very little. At some point Thorn crawled into his lap and slept there like a cat. Murtagh attempted to move him to the bed, but only a few minutes later, the child invited himself right back again. Thorn often maintained physical contact with him as a dragon, but tough scales were significantly different than the warm flesh of a human. Murtagh was not used to it. Still, he was not sure if it was intended to comfort him or if it was meant for Thorn, and so he did not resist. Instead, he lay down beside Thorn and tried to sleep, though the first rays of sunlight kept him from drifting off too soundly.

Still early in the morning and before the town came alive, they had breakfast and prepared to leave for good. Most of Aroughs was still asleep, though a few merchants were setting up their wares for the day. Murtagh led the way through the city towards the docks, intending to find safe passage for them to Narda. Thorn kept yawning and falling behind, and eventually he clung to the edge of Murtagh's leather jerkin and allowed himself to be dragged along.

A few ships were moored at the docks, but few were capable of a long journey with many passengers and fewer still were ready to leave port at all. Several of the ships had damaged hulls or broken masts. Murtagh went to a few sailors in search of captains and was sent around to speak with several different men. Only two ships were leaving within the month, and both intended only to sail to Feinstar. Finally, one of the captains sent him after a man named Ced.

Murtagh made his way to a different dock, one intended for smaller ships, and found a medium-sized vessel being loaded for a long voyage. The ship had a figurehead of a swordfish at the prow. One of the few crewmen pointed out Ced at the bow of the ship. The grizzled old man was shouting orders and hardly gave them any attention.

"My companion and I are looking for a ship to take us to Narda," Murtagh told him, and the man spoke over him to a passing crewman. Nevertheless, he added, "I was wondering where you are headed and if you have room for any passengers."

"Look elsewhere," answered Ced, and he walked across the deck of the ship, checking various ropes and supplies along the way. "No ship'll take ya to Narda right now, and least of all mine."

"You know of no other ships heading for Teirm or Narda?"

"No." Ced spoke again to his crewmen before stopping and finally giving Murtagh his attention. One of his brown eyes was lazy. "The water's become a dangerous place as of late. All the men who sailed north never reached their destination, and none returned. A storm is ragin' near Teirm now. It's impassable." With that, the man turned and continued with his work.

Murtagh wondered if the dangerous waters and impassable storm had anything to do with the other happenings as of late. Determined, he followed Ced and asked, "Where is your vessel headed?"

"Home," Ced told him, and he pulled a bundle of rope out of a storage container and passed it to one of his crewmen. With expert precision, he tied several ropes in place to secure the containers to the ship. Murtagh had little knowledge of sailing, but Ced's fluid actions suggested the man had been on many successful voyages. "Sea's too dangerous for travel or trade. I'm returnin' to Kuasta. Family's there."

Ced continued with his work, and Murtagh lagged behind. Kuasta was north, but not nearly as far as he wanted to go. From there, he could easily reach Teirm and potentially find another ship to Narda. However, if sailing truly was as dangerous as this man said, there would be no other ship. Murtagh calculated the amount of time it would take him to sail by ship and to travel by horse, weighing his options. Thorn rubbed his eyes and yawned, and that settled it. Leisure boat trip it was.

Following Ced again, Murtagh said, "If you have room for us and a horse, I would like to go with you." The man ignored him and continued with his work. Murtagh added, "I can pay, and I will also work."

"Are ya a man of the sea?" Ced asked without looking at him.

"No, but I am a quick study," Murtagh told him.

Ced stopped what he was doing and looked Murtagh over, and then he glanced at Thorn. The man folded his arms over his chest, and his expression was hard as though he intended to deny their request. Inhaling sharply through his nose, he brushed a hand across his mustache and then went back to work. "I'm short several crewmen. No one wants the risk, ya know? We leave at high noon. Be on board or be left behind."

"Thank you." Murtagh nodded and smiled.

He and Thorn returned to the city and collected their horse and a few other supplies for the journey. Before noon they boarded the ship. Most of the crewmen were older, like Ced, and were just trying to get home. Murtagh had no difficulty getting along with any of them, and they appreciated having a "strong, young body" on board to do the heavy lifting.

As they were departing from the docks, Murtagh followed the direction of several crew members and untied various anchoring ropes. At the stern of the ship, Thorn stood on the railing and watched the sky. Pointing, he called for not only Murtagh's attention but that of the crew as well.

"What is that?"

On the southern horizon brewed a massive storm. The clouds were bubbling like boiling water and reached towards them with impressive speed. Lightning ripped through the stark black wall, and the gentle rumble of thunder followed a while after. Several of the crewmen went running, shouting, "Man the oars!"

Murtagh stared in wonder at the extending blanket of dark gray and flickering lights, and then he followed the rest of the crew. With the help of the oars, they were able to get into deeper water and eventually raise the sails, catching a strong tailwind. They were propelled away from Aroughs and the approaching storm. It did not catch up with them.

Much of the trip was uneventful. Murtagh did the tasks required of him, including maintaining equipment, cooking, and cleaning. Managing the equipment was his favorite part, as he learned many things about the internal workings of the ship, and the men were happy to teach him. He did not mind the physical labor required in much of the maintenance and enjoyed the activity. Cooking was unpleasant due to limited supplies, and occasionally Murtagh would use magic to catch a few fish for the crew simply because their rations were already so scarce. No one wondered where the fish came from. In that way, he was able to be doubly beneficial to them. Cleaning was his least favorite task, and he was absolutely certain the crewmen threw food on the floor to spite him.

All the while, Thorn enjoyed the ride. When Murtagh went to work each morning, Thorn explored the ship, made friends with the crewmen, and kept watch over the open ocean. Several times crewmen remarked to Murtagh how his  _son_  was a fine lad, and then they would go on about their own children with overflowing pride. The first few times embarrassed Murtagh, but he eventually gave up resisting the notion.

The way the men spoke with love and pride over their children always left Murtagh a bit hollow inside.

Passing Feinstar and sailing several days beyond marked the halfway point of their trip.

One afternoon, after finishing his current task, Murtagh found Thorn at the bow of the ship. The boy loved to stand on the railing and let the wind rustle his hair and clothes. The sensation, while certainly not the same, was as close to flying as he might get. Murtagh leaned over the rail beside him. The sun was warm but the breeze was cool and dried the sweat on his skin from his previous labor.

"Are you well?" Thorn asked, and it was a question he asked every day.

"Yes," answered Murtagh, and he smiled. Now that Thorn had experienced life as a human, he took on the perspective that being human was very difficult, and he often assumed all humans felt tired, weak, or ill at any given time. "What have you done with yourself today?"

"I found two rats in the cabin." Thorn stared at the water without blinking. "I dealt with them." He did not elaborate, and Murtagh allowed his imagination to run wild. Dragon Thorn would have clawed them or eaten them—or both. Human Thorn? Perhaps beat them with a mop, capture them under a dish, strike them with a knife… the possibilities were endless and amusing.

Murtagh relaxed across the railing in silence. He would be preparing dinner for the crew soon, but that would be the last of his responsibilities for the day. The constant tedious work was wearing on him, and he longed for the days of traveling freely with Thorn—and before that, with Eragon. Every night before retiring, he attempted to scry his missing sibling without success. It was wearing on him, too.

The sound of crashing waves nearly lulled him to sleep until a bell clanged from the crow's nest. Thorn hopped off the railing, and Murtagh straightened. Someone was shouting above them, and then many of the crewmen scrambled across the deck. Fingers pointed to the horizon, and Murtagh followed with his eyes.

It was very slight, but amid the white caps of the waves one could see a speck of burnt orange, and it was increasing in size rapidly. By the time it was about as large as a man's thumb, the crewmen were scrambling and arming themselves with spears, bows, and arrows. When it was the size of his palm, Murtagh felt the faint reach of its mind into his, and he steeled himself against it. The rest of the crew stopped moving, Thorn included, and the bell went silent. The splash of color disappeared beneath the waves.

"What is that?" Murtagh muttered mostly to himself, and then he glanced at the others on the ship. No one was moving, and they stared blankly with lowered weapons and without a trace of concern or urgency on their faces. Even Thorn watched the water in a daze. Murtagh shook Thorn and the nearest crewmen, but they stared past him and did not respond. "What is—"

Just beneath the surface of the water slithered a creature as large as a mature dragon. Its body was long like a serpent's, and it propelled itself with powerful flippers. It circled the ship several times and then sank from sight. Murtagh held his breath, his heart racing, and then he searched for it with his mind. There was nothing to the creature, not a thought, not a feeling, simply empty space.

Murtagh followed it deep, and then it rushed to the surface. He turned sharply on his heels and held out his hand, shouting a word of magic into the air even before he saw it. The enormous creature broke the surface of the water and curved as though to fall over the ship, its mouth gaping and revealing hundreds of white, sharp teeth. Yet at Murtagh's command, it froze and twisted in the air, and then it fell back into the water. It circled the ship and breached the surface again, and Murtagh caught it and forced it back. The creature struck the side of the ship and broke a part of the railing, and all of the crewmen staggered. It was enough to shake them from their stupor.

"What is that!?"

"Attack!"

Men screamed and shot arrows at the water as the monster circled and then disappeared into the deep. Murtagh wobbled from the exertion of stilling it. Whatever it was, it was strong and required a great deal of energy to catch. It attacked the hull of the ship, but Murtagh defended against its strike and forced it down. Three times it tried to bite the ship, twice it attempted to strike it with its long body, and then it attacked again with its mind to immobilize the crew. Murtagh would not allow the same tactic twice, and he built a mental barrier around each of the crewmen to ward off the attack.

The sea serpent rose above the surface of the water, circling the ship at a slight distance. It raised its head and snarled at them, flashing its mouth full of teeth, and then it picked up speed. Spears whistled through the air and bounced harmlessly off its hide. When the creature dove deep and jumped again to crash on the ship, Murtagh raised a hand and caught it, freezing it in the air. A smattering of arrows hit it and then dropped into the ocean. Then, the crewmen stopped, and people stared not at the monster hanging in the air but instead at the one holding it there.

Murtagh attempted a few words of death against the monster, but nothing had an effect. It was too powerful. Feeling his strength diminishing, he had no choice but to hurl it back into the water. Again, it circled the ship, though now it built up speed.

Arrows and spears flew, and a few people threw salted meat in a vain attempt to appease the creature. Terror loomed on the crewmen's faces. Never had they experienced anything like this, and everyone thought they were going to die. The creature snapped at the ship again, and Murtagh deflected it. All the while, he searched the ship for something—anything—that could stop it for good. The monster jumped, and before Murtagh could completely stop it, it struck the side of the ship and ripped off another portion of the railing. The vessel lurched, and water pounded over the sides. Crewmen went rolling, snatching ropes and what remained of the railing to keep from falling off the deck.

Murtagh growled and caught the creature in the water, forcing it backwards with all of his strength. It flopped across the surface and writhed to break free of his hold, but he managed to toss it several hundred feet away. His legs buckled and he dropped to one knee. As expected, the sea serpent roared, jumped out of the water, and then rushed them again.

Men ran around arming themselves with more useless weapons. Murtagh searched the ship one last time and then forced himself back onto his feet. Over his crewmates' screaming, he shouted, "Be quiet and do as I say!" Everyone went silent, and Murtagh pointed at the figurehead. "Cut that down and bring it to me." Then, pointing at one of the thicker masts, he said, "That, too."

"Murtagh—" started Thorn in surprise, but for now, Murtagh ignored him.

"What're you plannin', boy?" Ced roared, stomping towards him. No one else moved. "This be my ship yer talkin' 'bout!"

"Do you want your ship in pieces but your men alive, or would you rather the ship and everyone on it be in that thing's stomach?" snapped Murtagh. They did not have time to argue.

Ced considered the question only briefly, and then he shouted for the men to do as Murtagh asked. Men took swords and hacked away at the figurehead, and one man had an axe that he used to fell the mast. Murtagh used magic to catch, preserve, and bring them to him on the deck, and then he had the crew fasten the figurehead to the end of the mast, creating a haphazard but massive spear. Several ropes bound it in place, and one man pounded in a few nails.

Meanwhile, the sea serpent leapt closer, and Murtagh caught it again and held it back. It was getting too difficult to hold. Every time he touched it, pain stabbed through his head and strength ebbed out of him. His stomach churned.

When their swordfish spear had been created, Murtagh wove intricate spells of magic over it to make it stronger than any metal and sharper than any sword. When he finished, he rose. Thorn stood beside him and leaned against him. Actually, Murtagh was the one leaning, and Thorn was keeping him upright.

"What do we do with this?" asked a skeptical member of the crew.

Murtagh did not bother with a response. The monstrous sea creature was almost upon them. It attempted to assault their minds, but now Murtagh deflected the attack with ease. The serpent circled the ship, gnashing its teeth occasionally above the surface, and then it disappeared in the deep. Murtagh hoisted the magic-imbued spear into the air and followed the creature with his mind. The crewmen fell back in fear.

Aside from the crashing waves, it was quiet.

Then the sea serpent jumped, unleashing a monstrous roar. Water rained over the ship. Murtagh spun and moved his hand, and with it he sent the spear straight into the gaping mouth of the creature. He pressed it as far as he could, and the sharpest point of the swordfish protruded out the back of the serpent's head. The monster hit the side of the ship and wailed as it fell, and then it thrashed in the water. Eventually, its teeth sawed through most of the wooden mast, but the spear-like point remained stuck through its body. It struck the ship once with its tail and then turned away.

Murtagh followed it with his mind until it left them. Then and only then did he allow his legs to buckle, and he sprawled out on the deck. As the ship rocked from the various blows, water sprayed over him.

Thorn was talking, but Murtagh could not make out any of his words. His ears were ringing. Several crewmen gathered around him, their faces twisted into frowns. His vision blurred and made it difficult to tell anything more. Murtagh was brought to his hammock and put to rest. A day passed before he recovered enough to walk, and he returned to the deck.

Due to the broken mast and damage to the hull, they had been creeping through the water. Murtagh wove a spell upon the ship and upon the waves, pressing them forward so they could reach their destination sooner—and before the monster could think to attack again. Few of the crewmen knew of his spell, but Ced guessed it. Murtagh caught him frowning at him once or twice.

Thorn pestered him and urged him to rest, and Murtagh obeyed. The second half of their trip was gone in a blur, and before long they arrived in Kuasta.


	7. Risen

Kuasta was a town of moderate size in the Spine, and its single dock was not adequate for larger ships. Ced's mid-sized vessel only barely made it in. Many of the townsfolk approached out of curiosity, for they were not accustomed to travelers, but as soon as the first several people recognized Ced, they lost interest.

Murtagh brought their supplies off the ship while Thorn guided the horse. Many of the sailors clapped Murtagh's shoulder before departing, and Ced stopped him in the town center.

"Thanks, lad," said the captain, and he extended his hand. Murtagh accepted it. "I owe ya the lives of my crew… not to mention my ship."

"Sorry about your figurehead." Murtagh broke the contact between them.

"Aye," answered Ced, and he laughed. "Perhaps I'll make a new figurehead of that beast out there, whatever it be."

Murtagh parted with Ced on good terms, and he and Thorn ran a few errands in town before sunset. By the time they ate and paid for a room at the inn, Murtagh collapsed in bed and did not move again. Per their usual routine, Thorn sprawled over him. Murtagh could not help but laugh.

The next day, after breakfast, they left the inn. Murtagh asked around and eventually found a rather large building something like a cathedral. It had large windows and tall peaks on its roof. In fact it was a library and one of utmost importance to the people of Kuasta and scholars around Alagaësia. The scholarly sect known as Arcaena began in this town, and as such it was still a center for the gathering of great minds.

Not a sound could be heard inside the library. It consisted of two floors, and only a few books sat upon the shelves. Most of the valuable works had likely been taken to Urû'baen at some point or another or had disappeared during times of unrest. It was a pity, for Murtagh had been excited about this particular stop on the way. He found only three books on magic or spirits and went to read them at a table.

"You are disappointed," Thorn noted, kicking his feet. "Do you wish there was more for you to read?"

"Yes and no," answered Murtagh, skimming the pages of the first book for keywords that might be useful. The book only gave general information on magic that hardly touched the surface of its existence or power. "Knowledge can only help us."

"You have enough power to stop anything that stands in your way," commented Thorn, raising an eyebrow. "What purpose is there in studying as you do?"

"Not all of us can simply eat whatever troubles us, Thorn." Murtagh laughed when Thorn's face wrinkled in a frown. "Besides, strength alone will prove useless without the mind to use it effectively."

"Such as taking a piece of a ship and turning it into a lethal weapon," mused Thorn, and Murtagh nodded.

"Precisely."

"Yes." Thorn nodded. There was a gleam in his eyes as he said, "You are clever sometimes."

At this, Murtagh scowled. "Sometimes?" Leaning back in his seat and sticking his nose in the book, he grumbled, "You do this on purpose now." Thorn smiled and bared his teeth but said nothing else.

Much of the morning passed, and Murtagh had little to show from his studies. One of the books was a theoretical volume on the existence of spirits and their power, but the only thing that was written with certainty was that around Alagaësia existed places where magic seemed to seep out of the earth. Murtagh had heard of a few of these places before, but they had been studied and no one found anything of any great importance about them. Other than that, the works simply wrote of spirits as something to fear in the form of a Shade.

Closing the last book and returning them to their proper places, Murtagh sighed and rubbed the back of his head. On his way out the door, he glanced up and halted abruptly, and Thorn bumped into him.

Sprawled across the top of a bookshelf near the door was a shaggy black cat. Its tail twitched in the air, and its sharp crimson eyes stared intently at Murtagh. When it blinked, its eyes flashed gold. It was no ordinary cat.

"We should go," Murtagh told Thorn, and he took his child companion by the wrist to lead him out.

The cat's tail thumped against the shelf as they passed by, and Murtagh could have swore it smiled at them.

"We leave for Teirm now?" Thorn asked when they were outside.

Murtagh tried to shake the feeling of unease the cat left him with, but it hung on him. "Yes. From Teirm we can probably travel straight to Gil'ead."

"You do not intend to go to Narda?"

"No. From Narda, we would have more towns to visit along the way, but I believe time is against us now," Murtagh explained. "We should cut across and aim for Ellesméra directly."

"The storm concerns you?"

"And that creature, whatever it was. It was not natural."

Thorn nodded. "Very well."

And so, after loading the horse with supplies, they set out from Kuasta and made for Teirm. Their travels kept them near to the coast, but clouds rolled over their heads and rain began to fall. Murtagh thought little of it until the wind off the ocean picked up and became fierce, and the storm raged for days.

Assuming this was the storm that would not cease mentioned by Ced, he steered them into the mountains to at least find shelter from the wind. Lightning rippled across the sky, and thunder boomed and shook the ground. Colorful autumn leaves fluttered around them. The temperature plummeted the further they traveled, and Murtagh used magic to keep them warm. After several days of the chilling storm, the rain turned cold as ice. It started to form a thick, white blanket over the earth.

Thunder shook the mountains, but over it Murtagh thought he heard something else—something louder than the thunder. With the wind and rain, however, it was difficult to tell.

Finally, they began their descent into a valley. Heavy clouds concealed the light of the sun, and thick rain made it difficult to see. Nevertheless, a flash of lightning revealed dark shapes in the valley. Then he heard it, and now there was no doubt. Amidst the wind and thunder came a deep and venomous roar, followed by high-pitched screeching. Hundreds of lesser voices followed with terrifying wails.

Murtagh hurried the horse along the mountainside, taking in the full view of the valley at every opportunity the lightning provided. Hundreds of figures were funneling in one direction. Ra'zac. Beyond them, standing on its hind legs with wings spread wide, was the Lethrblaka Murtagh had faced in the desert. It let out a crippling scream and then thrashed against the ground. Darkness concealed the purpose of its actions.

_The dead have risen._  An entire species returned from extinction. A sickening thought.

"Can we go around?" Thorn asked.

Murtagh searched the valley, but every time the Lethrblaka shrieked, the horse panicked and turned them around. Finally, he slid to the ground and searched for an alternate means to get through. A wide, shallow river wound through that should have went all the way to Teirm.

A flash of red light erupted from the ground near the Lethrblaka and made both Murtagh and Thorn stop. It happened several times, and flames erupted around the monstrous creature before being snuffed out by the rain.

"Murtagh!" Thorn shouted, pointing. "Someone is using magic down there!"

Murtagh did not want to expose himself to the Ra'zac or Lethrblaka, but his curiosity got the better of him. Many people could use magic, but few people could use it effectively against a Ra'zac army and Lethrblaka. Hoping he would find Eragon then and there, he searched with his mind to try to see and understand who it was below. Two humans were present, and both easily fortified their minds against him.

"If something happens to me, get as far away from here as possible," Murtagh told Thorn, and he departed down the mountainside, slipping in thick patches of mud.

"Where are you going?" shouted Thorn, steering the horse towards an easier slope.

"To help," he explained.

Not that he had any brilliant ideas at the moment. The mountains were too far from the Lethrblaka to bury it in a mudslide, and the wind and rain had little effect on it. Lightning struck within the valley and gave Murtagh pause. The ground sizzled briefly before rain killed any embers that may have remained.

It was another risky ploy, but he was becoming rather adept at gambling. Murtagh prodded with his mind the bed of the river and deep in the earth. Then he hurried into the valley towards the Lethrblaka and the Ra'zac army. Two people covered in mud and heavy cloaks struggled against the creatures. One of them had fallen, and the other made feeble attempts at magic to save them both.

"Over here!" Murtagh yelled, waving his arms. It was not for the attention of the people but of the Lethrblaka and Ra'zac. When they paid him little mind, he shouted, " _Brisingr!_ " and ignited balls of fire over their heads.

The Ra'zac turned, but the Lethrblaka was focused on the two humans in front of it. To grab its attention, Murtagh reached into its head and found the stone still implanted deep under its eye. He gave it a jerk and forced the creature's head to turn. The Lethrblaka snarled and whipped in his direction.

"Remember me?" Murtagh asked, and then he fell back. Even though this was part of his plan, having all of their hostile attentions directed at him made his pulse quicken. When he was certain they were following him, he turned and ran into the river.

The Lethrblaka snapped its jaws and slithered across the ground, sinking its claws deep into the mud. When it was close to Murtagh, it climbed on its hind legs and roared, and a backdrop of lightning flashed behind it. The clouds above were swirling black. The Ra'zac hissed and staggered closer, and Murtagh drew his sword to fend off those closest to him until the time was right. He allowed the Lethrblaka to peck at him twice, and then the creature jumped over him to crush him.

Murtagh dodged and ran further down the river, stumbling as it deepened, and then stopped directly in the middle. With magic, he built up several barriers to protect himself and the others. Spinning around, he focused on the Lethrblaka. The eye he had wounded had caved in and was scarred.

"You and I," he started, casually, "are not going to get along."

Several Ra'zac jumped him, and the Lethrblaka dove at him with maw gaping. Murtagh caught every trace of metal in the ground beneath him, as far as he could reach, and pulled it upwards. At his command, the metal melted into thin, needle-like spears that pierced through even the Lethrblaka's thick scales and swept the Ra'zac off their feet. Tiny threads of metal snaked through the army of Ra'zac like a spider's web. It did not cause harm, but it made them squirm.

Murtagh uttered a word, and several flashes of lightning snapped over their heads. Then, massive bolts poured out of the heavens and struck the metal web and the river, creating a vast explosion that overwhelmed the valley. Murtagh felt his barriers of protection waver, but they did not fall. To maintain them, however, sapped his strength and left him tottering. The screams of the Lethrblaka and Ra'zac were more than enough to justify the sacrifice.

Lights faded and sparks washed away, and Ra'zac body parts were strewn all around Murtagh. Not a single Ra'zac in a wide radius around him remained standing, and the rest fled across the valley with hysterical shrieks. The Lethrblaka stood up and roared. One of its wings was nearly severed. The creature jumped and somehow managed to take flight, disappearing over the mountains.

Overhead, the clouds had disintegrated and gave way to warm sunlight. Nevertheless, over the mountains on either side, the storm continued to rage.

Murtagh's vision blurred, as he expected, and as soon as the danger passed, he fell backwards into the water. It was cold and kept him conscious—barely. Sunlight burned his eyes. The two people he rescued rushed towards him. Lightning illuminated the mountains behind them.

"Murtagh!" screamed Thorn, but his voice was still far away.

One of the people approached, staggering through the water. "Are you all right?" It was a woman's voice, and it was familiar, though Murtagh could not yet place it. His chest ached, and his breath caught in his throat.

Her partner remained at the edge of the water, but the woman came to him and clasped Murtagh's shoulder. He recoiled from her hand. As she pulled down her hood, tears stung his eyes.

_The dead have risen._

Murtagh recognized her—he would never forget her face. She was not smiling, and Murtagh recognized that all the more. She had never smiled with him, not really. Even with the mud smeared on her face, she was beautiful.

_The dead have risen._

Her brown hair was in disarray. Possibly at one point it had been tied up, but now it fell across her shoulders in mud-caked lumps. She touched him again, speaking words of concern over him, but he no longer understood what she said.

_The dead have risen._

All he could do was stare at his mother in disbelief.

From behind, the other person finally pulled down their hood. Murtagh recognized his aged face, graying hair, and long beard even underneath all the mud, though he had only seen him once. Brom was the man who killed his father, after all, so he was unforgettable. Still, he looked at him for only a moment, and then he met eyes with his mother again, with Selena.

"Are you hurt?" she asked. He tried to respond, but his voice escaped him.

"Murtagh!" Thorn was close now, splashing through the water. Then, Thorn landed behind him, grabbing at him and searching him in concern. "Are you injured?" Then at last, he stopped and noticed the two humans in their company, and he became silent.

At the mention of Murtagh's name, Selena leaned back. Her brow furrowed only for a second, and then she asked again, "Are you hurt? Is something the matter?"

"N-no," he sputtered, and it was a lie. It did hurt.

She did not recognize his name—or she did and it was immediately forgotten. Then and only then did he truly understand what he lost when he made his pact with the spirit and assumed its powers. He would be erased, and no one would remember he existed. Overwhelmed, he tried to get up and stumbled in the water. Thorn and Selena caught him.

"Don't push yourself," she told him, and then she pulled him towards the shore. "Using magic like that… That should have killed you!"

Murtagh muttered an excuse under his breath, but even he had no idea what he said. Thorn was frowning at him and trying to support his weight. When they reached the shore, Brom took him from Selena and they set him on the ground. Clouds rolled across the sky, and though slight at first, ice began to fall again.

"We should move into the trees for shelter," Brom suggested, pointing to the edge of the forest on the opposite side of the valley. It was not far. "I would hate for them to come back."

Selena nodded and started to help Murtagh up. He pulled his arm away from her and rose, though he wavered. Thorn caught him again. Wordlessly they went to the forest, finding some shelter from the elements, and then Murtagh stumbled again and then sat on the ground. His head was throbbing, his ears were ringing, and his body was numb. Despite his best efforts, he could not maintain the spell to keep them warm, and a wet chill seeped through his clothes and to his skin. Thorn probably felt the same, he realized, and it troubled him.

Selena scanned their surroundings and then sighed, muttering something under her breath. The air rippled like a mirage in the desert, and then the ice pattered against an invisible ceiling over their heads. Warmth enveloped them, and the howling wind and booming thunder quieted, merely an echo of what they had been.

Brom shook the ice out of his cloak and then faced Murtagh, his expression hard. "That was an impressive display," he commented, casually at first, and then his tone turned to one of mistrust. "Few should ever be capable of magic like that. Who are you?"

Even though Murtagh understood his wary sentiments, it bothered him. Curtly, he said, "You're welcome."

Brom straightened, and his brow wrinkled. Selena touched his shoulder and slipped past him, crouching in front of Murtagh. "Thank you for your help." With a gentle tone, she added, "Forgive our abruptness, but we have been in great peril since coming here."

"I noticed," he replied. Now everything hurt, and black spots scattered across his vision. He curled over himself.

Selena thought to say more but refrained. Rising, she turned her attention once again to Brom. "I can't maintain a spell like this for long, and the storm will only grow worse as night falls. We need to reach Teirm as quickly as possible."

"Ah," squeaked Thorn, and then he rose and ran out of the protective barrier and into the ever-increasing storm. "Our horse!"

"Thorn! Wait!" Murtagh called out, and his voice cracked.

Despite the fierce protest of every muscle in his body, he forced himself to his feet and started after him. If the Lethrblaka or any Ra'zac lingered, a horse was the least of their concerns. Selena caught his arm and kept him from leaving, but Brom departed from the shelter after the runaway child. After only three steps and with Selena tugging him back, Murtagh hit his knees. White swirled across his vision.

A long while passed, and then Thorn and Brom returned atop the runaway horse. The poor creature was stricken and not easy to control, but they had a handle on it. Brom slid to the ground and dragged Murtagh up and to the horse.

"Follow the river west and you will reach Teirm," Brom explained to Thorn. Likely a continuation of a conversation they had been having earlier, for Thorn simply nodded. "Find shelter immediately."

Murtagh tried to pull himself up into the saddle but failed miserably. His fingers were frozen and his muscles would not work. Thorn pulled and Brom lifted until he was in the seat, and even then he swayed unstably.

"Lean on me," Thorn told him, and the child gripped the reins and took charge of the horse.

"Be quick," said Brom.

Everything was spinning now, but Murtagh never hit the ground. White flecks swayed across his vision until he could no longer see. As the horse galloped, jolts of pain shot through his limbs and hammered at his head.

"We are almost there. Hold on," said Thorn's voice over the constant roar of the storm. He was calm but concerned.

Murtagh had to resist throwing up. White flecks were eventually replaced by darkness. Silence fell over him. The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was Thorn's cracking voice.

"Please hold on, Murtagh."


	8. Adjusting Course

Murtagh was somewhere between awake and asleep when they arrived in Teirm. Several voices shouted, one of which was Thorn's, and then strong hands hauled him off the horse. When his feet touched the ground, he managed to open his eyes.

Wind howled through Teirm, and rain poured down in sheets, but several people came out of a building to help them. Two men supported Murtagh and carried him inside. A dizzying mess of lights and colors twirled around him, and then he was sitting in a chair in a room so warm that the air burned his skin. A large woman circled him several times and then was gone.

Thorn came next, patting his face. "Are you awake?"

"Yes," Murtagh managed to murmur, though he himself was not quite certain.

"Here." Thorn offered him a thick, heavy towel. "Warm clothing has been prepared for you as well."

"I am not cold," said Murtagh, swatting the towel away.

Thorn growled at him and disappeared behind him. The child climbed up the back of the chair, and he tossed the towel over Murtagh's head and rubbed his hair in every direction. Murtagh caught the towel to stop him, and Thorn stepped back.

"You are freezing, and you are ill," Thorn told him with a growl, fierce but also fearful. His tone brought Murtagh back to his senses. "Dry yourself and change quickly."

Murtagh sighed because he did not entirely believe him. His head was swimming and he was painfully numb, though, and so he trusted Thorn's judgment. He dried himself of excess water with the towel and then changed into the provided linen nightshirt and breeches. Suddenly, he began to shiver. He was, in fact, cold. Thorn snatched away his wet clothing.

"To bed," Thorn ordered, and again he left no room for negotiation.

Stumbling to the bed, Murtagh pulled back the thick blanket and crawled beneath it. His head barely hit the pillow before he was drifting to sleep again. Thorn said a few things he did not understand, and the blanket was adjusted over him. Someone knocked on the door, and words were exchanged between Thorn and a gruff-sounding woman. Shortly after, Thorn attempted to prop up his head.

"Drink this before you sleep." Thorn offered him a drink from a mug.

Murtagh accepted because he did not have the energy to fight. He drank a warm, bitter liquid that he hoped was some type of tea. When he was finished, Thorn laid his head to rest and then buried him under more blankets. Murtagh drifted in and out of consciousness.

When he awoke the next time, it was dark in the room. The storm continued to rage outside. Thorn was sprawled over him, spreading warmth across Murtagh's trembling body. A deep chill in his bones refused to go away, and even though his mind told him he was warm enough, he shivered.

Dreams took him from the world of waking.

He was a child again, only three years old, and in his father's castle. His mother held him in her arms and spoke gentle words over him, though he could not remember what she said. All he could remember was that tears filled her eyes. On the rare occasions when he saw her, she was always sad. A few times she attempted to smile for him, but it was always forced, like the action physically hurt her.

Many times he wondered why she was crying and what he had done wrong. All he wanted was for her to smile and be happy to be with him, but it was never the case.

Still three years old, he was sitting in the corner of his father's study. Rarely would he be called to visit his father, and each time frightened him more than the time before it. The more he grew, the more his father hated him. In the beginning his father only spoke cruel words over him, condemning him for being a liability and a burden. Then cruel words turned to yelling, and yelling eventually became violent outbursts. If his father's mood went a certain way, Murtagh was sure to leave his presence with bruises, particularly if his father had been drinking.

His father hated him even though Murtagh wanted to please him. Murtagh wanted his parents to care that he existed.

One night, while his father was raging, Murtagh turned to run away. He knew better than to run—disobedience was a mistake. Before he knew what happened, he was on the ground, and the crimson blade Zar'roc hit the floor nearby. There was no sound. Flecks of red splattered the floor, and he could barely breathe.

It hurt.

Murtagh lay on the floor for a while, and his father sat in a chair without looking at him. A servant heard his cry and came to attend to him. Murtagh cried as he was being taken away, and never once did his father pay any attention to him. That hurt worse than the sword to his back.

With a short gasp, Murtagh awoke fully alert. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he hastily wiped them away.

Outside, rain fell and wind howled, and thunder shook the wood walls of the room in which he slept.

Thorn and the mountain of blankets were gone. The room was warm and lit with a small lamp, and a change of clothing was sitting on the table near his bedside. It took a good long while for him to want to move, and only when the door opened did he sit up. His muscles and joints ached, and his head was swimming as he got upright. Thorn stood in the doorway, inspecting him, and then he entered and closed the door. He had on his fierce dragon face, and Murtagh considered crawling under the blanket.

"No more," Thorn told him, and the tone of his young voice was gruff. "If you continue to push yourself like that, you will not recover." Despite his harsh tone, Thorn's eyes filled with tears. "No more."

"Sorry," responded Murtagh, and he meant it. He did not know what was worse: sensing Thorn's feelings deep within his being while they were intimately connected as dragon and Rider or watching Thorn cry out of concern for him. Both were equally upsetting. Trying to remain positive, he said, "I am feeling better now."

"You have a fever." Thorn shifted, and he cast his eyes to the floor and hung his head. "I did not know. You may have had it for some time—"

"I am fine." Murtagh smiled. He did not feel well, but his body would eventually catch up with his words. Pushing aside the blanket, he reached for his change of clothes. Everything was new, and his old garments were nowhere to be found. He raised an eyebrow at Thorn.

"You should come downstairs," responded Thorn, and then he approached the bed. Their eyes met, and the child's voice fell. "I recall from your memories… She is your mother."

The statement knocked the wind out of Murtagh. He set the clothing aside and rested his hands in his lap. All he could do was offer a slight nod. Thorn stared at him and then climbed on the bed. Taking Murtagh's face in both hands, he snorted into his hair. Murtagh laughed even though it hurt.

"Humans do not do that, Thorn," he explained, but he continued to chuckle.

"I am not a human," Thorn reminded him with a hint of pride. "I am a dragon."

Murtagh smiled. "Thanks."

With a nod, Thorn slid off the bed and went to the door. "Please dress and come downstairs."

Murtagh agreed and then was left alone. He changed into the provided clothing and even found a new pair of boots by the door. His sword was gone and he feared it was lost in the river, but at least he had his bow and arrows. After fastening on his weapons, he left the bedroom.

It was a small inn with worn wood walls and scuffed floors. On the level beneath him were several plain tables and chairs, as well as a counter on which were many bottles of spirits. An innkeeper was sweeping the floor and failed to notice him. Thorn sat at a table, and with him were Selena and Brom, both wearing dry, clean clothes. Thorn was also dressed in new clothing.

Selena touched Brom's arm and laughed at something he said. Her smile was real, as was the glow on her cheeks and the light in her eyes. It was something Murtagh had never seen before, and it caught him off guard. He stopped on the stairs and watched them. Thorn noticed Murtagh first, and the pair with him quickly followed his gaze. Selena's smile faltered.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, and her concern was genuine.

"Well enough," he answered, approaching the table. He tugged on the sleeve of his new linen shirt. "I suppose these are from you?"

"You saved our lives," she said. "A night at the inn and a fresh change of clothes hardly repays that debt." When Murtagh stopped at a distance and had nothing to say, she waved a hand toward the empty chair at the table. "Please sit."

Murtagh obeyed, his body rigid. Thorn and Brom were staring at him, though both for different reasons. Thorn was expecting a family reunion, and Brom did not trust Murtagh. Selena alone kept the conversation moving. Murtagh was thankful that she seemed to know nothing of who he was to her and that Thorn had kept quiet about it.

"Help yourself," Selena offered, pushing a tray of food across the table to him. Murtagh had no appetite but nodded in gratitude regardless. She leaned forward, folding her hands under her chin. "You will have to forgive us for our hesitation in the valley. You saved our lives, and we truly are grateful."

"Why were the Ra'zac and Lethrblaka attacking you?" he blurted out, skipping the pleasantries. He could not handle carrying on a friendly conversation when all he wanted to do was go back upstairs and crawl into bed. His chest ached, and it was not from the pain of fever or injury.

"The Ra'zac have been following us for a long while now," explained Brom, sinking back in the chair. "This was the first time that monster of a creature appeared, though."

"Have you done something to anger them?" Murtagh asked more forcefully than he wanted. Truthfully, his thoughts were a jumbled mess, and the nightmares from the night before and his mother's presence made him want to weep. It was normally easy for him to tuck away thoughts and feelings like that, and so he blamed the fever for making him weak.

Selena and Brom exchanged looks, and then his mother shook her head. "We are looking for our son and nothing more. We do not know why they targeted us."

Murtagh sank in his seat, and he fought to keep tears from his eyes. She was looking for her son. Singular. It hurt far more than it should have. He glanced at Thorn for some sort of moral support, but his partner stared at Selena without blinking. The nightmares from the night before kept coming to the forefront of Murtagh's mind, and then he remembered her smile—her real, genuine, honest smile—and the sound of her laughter.

Stuffing down all of his feelings, he said, "Your son is Eragon." Selena's eyes went wide. Brom straightened, his face pinching into a scowl, his eyes narrow. Murtagh added, "I know who you are. Brom and Selena… you are the parents of the Dragon Rider, Eragon."

"How do you know that?" Brom asked with a sharp edge to his voice.

Murtagh considered the most tactful approach to the subject and then leaned back in his seat. "Tell me first: what do you know of the current condition of Alagaësia? What do you know of Galbatorix and the Empire?"

"Current condition?" Selena echoed, and again she exchanged looks with Brom.

"You mean after we died?" Brom wondered and caught Murtagh off guard. The elder man frowned deeply. "We have traveled to many places since we awoke in the desert. We have heard of Eragon's rise and the fall of Galbatorix. Most of all we know that we were dead and are now alive again." Crossing his arms, he scowled at Murtagh. "Does that answer your question well enough?" When Murtagh nodded, he added, "Now tell me what you know of my son."

A little lightheaded and quite uncomfortable, Murtagh squirmed in his chair. He was not certain if this made things easier or more difficult. "After you…" More difficult, he decided. Murtagh met eyes with Brom. "I was with Eragon when you died, and I helped him bury you. I traveled together with him to the Varden."

"And?" pressed Brom.

Thorn ate what was on the tray in front of them, staring hard at Murtagh.

For more than a few reasons, Murtagh could not share everything he knew. However, he did not want to lie to them, either. He kept his secrets, but he did not lie. "I did not stay long in the Varden, and Eragon went on to become Alagaësia's hero. He and I are nothing more than acquaintances now." Though they were brothers by blood, it was not a lie. "I am looking for him as well."

"Why?" Brom asked. "If you are nothing more than acquaintances, why search for him?"

"I have my reasons," Murtagh replied curtly, and he regretted it.

Shadows fell over Brom's blue eyes, and a storm raged in them equivalent to the storm outside. It was understandable why he did not trust a stranger like Murtagh who appeared suddenly and with unusual magical prowess, but unintentionally Murtagh also made it seem as though he may be a threat to Eragon.

"We are finished here," said Brom abruptly, and his chair scraped on the floor as he rose.

"Wait," Murtagh started. He looked to Thorn for unspoken permission, but his partner continued to eat and was now unconcerned with them. Giving his attention back to Brom, he checked his emotions and softened his tone. "I am looking for Eragon to help him. You do not need to trust me, but at least travel with me until we find him."

Brom leaned on the table. "And why should we do that?"

"Safety," Murtagh answered with haste. He was being completely honest, after all. Given the situation he had found them in, he did not want to leave them—leave his mother—alone. Moreover, countless questions buzzed through his mind that he would not be content to leave unanswered. Why were they targeted? Why were  _they_  brought back over anyone else? Why was anyone brought back at all?

"Pardon?" growled Brom, slighted.

"As I see it, you have two options available to you. Decide what you think is the wisest course," Murtagh said. "Your first option is to leave me behind. If the Ra'zac and Lethrblaka attack you again, I will not be there to protect you. Furthermore, if I wanted to kill you or Eragon, I would find a way to do so when you least expect it. I would have the element of surprise."

Three pairs of eyes fell on him with a mix of reactions. Thorn was impressed, Selena was stunned, and Brom was angry.

Murtagh continued, "Your second option is to take me with you. I can use my powers to protect you should those creatures attack again, and you can determine by my actions if I am friend or foe. Should you decide I am foe, you will know where I am and will be better able to deal with me."

A moment of silence passed over the table, and no one moved. Brom straightened and crossed his arms, subtly shifting his jaw back and forth, and Selena snorted.

"And what do you gain by dragging us around, as it so seems you think you must do?" she asked with a mild laugh.

"I could use the help," Murtagh explained. "I saw that you used magic."

"I was under the impression you did not need help as far as magic is concerned," commented Selena.

"I seem to recall being carried away on a horse," he countered.

Selena exhaled and folded her hands under her chin again, leaning with her elbows on the table. Her eyes glinted playfully, and Murtagh gleaned she was rather cunning. "A valid argument," she said, and then she rose and faced Brom. "I am rather glad we were not eaten in the valley. I think we should take them along." They shared a long look in silence. Selena smiled and pressed her hands on the table. "You are welcome to join us. We will be departing for Carvahall first thing tomorrow."

"Carvahall?" Murtagh echoed.

"Yes. Carvahall is where Eragon was raised. If he went somewhere familiar, that would be a place of significance," explained Selena. She leaned her weight to one side. "Did you have somewhere else in mind?"

Murtagh did not want to delay his journey to Ellesméra any more than he already had, but she also made a valid argument. If Eragon had been injured or stranded, Carvahall was a likely place for him to be. Furthermore, Eragon could answer many of his pressing questions, such as why the spirits attacked him in the first place and what their intentions were, and Eragon alone could provide them easy access to Ellesméra. Murtagh doubted he would get far into Du Weldenvarden before the elves cast him out, and he did not want to start a feud with them. Besides, his original plan was to follow along the beaten path for easier travels, and now that he was feeling unwell, it seemed the better plan.

"I had other plans," he answered honestly. "However, I can adjust them."

"We leave tomorrow," she declared. Nodding at each of them before departing, she said, "Murtagh. Thorn." Then, she spun on her heels and went up the stairs and into one of the rooms.

Brom waited until after she was gone and the door closed before turning on Murtagh again, his face tight. "Selena is one thing, but how do you know who I am?" His tone trembled. "Even Eragon did not know I am his father."

Now the distrust made significantly more sense, for Murtagh had not known it was such a secret. "He knows," he responded gently, warmth stirring in his chest. "When he told me, his voice was full of pride."

Taken aback, Brom frowned. Coughing to clear his throat, he shifted towards the stairs. "I see." With nothing more than a nod, he left them and went upstairs, slow and intentional with each step, and went into the same room as Selena.

Thorn swallowed a lump of bread and wiped crumbs off his chin with the back of his hand. "Why did you not say anything to her?"

It was a valid question and one for which Murtagh did not yet have a concise answer. "I am not ready yet," he concluded. "Please allow me to tell her when I feel the time is right."

Thorn raised an eyebrow but did not question further. Instead, he took another piece of bread from the tray and ate, for his stomach was a bottomless pit. Murtagh sighed at avoiding the question for now. He watched the door above them expecting Selena or Brom to come back out, but no one did, and he did not see either of them for the rest of the day.


	9. Darkness Falls

Freezing rain poured over the land from Teirm nearly all the way to Narda. Powerful gusts of wind stripped the trees of their leaves and rid the land of all forms of cover, and rivers of slush and mud made mountains and hills difficult to traverse. When the storm finally began to subside and give way to calm, the temperature dropped and became almost unbearable. Even then the churning clouds did not break, giving midday the appearance of dusk.

Despite Thorn's protests, Murtagh maintained the barrier around them that kept them warm and dry for the majority of their trip, and because of it, Brom had no choice but to at least acknowledge he was beneficial in that regard. Whenever Murtagh became too rundown, Selena would take up the task, though it wore on her far quicker and had greater negative impact on her than him. He tried not to make her do it until he was at the point of collapse, and then he would ride the horse with Thorn and sleep.

Because of the constant exertion, Murtagh's fever did not break, and even with the warmth of magic his body trembled from cold. It had very little impact on his activities, but he was occasionally aware of it, and sometimes it wore on him until it was difficult even to keep his head up.

Brom led the way, and now he had with him a walking staff with a bulbous top made of gnarled tree roots. Selena stayed close and rarely strayed from his side, and as they walked together and whispered to each other, she would often laugh, and he would, too. They were comfortable together, and happy.

Murtagh kept his distance. He remained a quiet spectator for much of their travels.

On a warmer day as they neared Narda, Selena fell back, and Murtagh slowed. She turned and walked backwards in order to speak with him. It was effortless for her, and despite the blanket of sticks blown to the ground from the storm, she never once stumbled. Her wool cloak fluttered around her like the wings of a butterfly.

"Tell me, Murtagh," she started, her eyes smiling as well as her lips. "Where do you call home?"

"I don't particularly consider anywhere home." Tipping his head in Thorn's direction, he added, "My place is with Thorn, and he travels."

Selena stared at him and then spun around, walking straight again. "You are not related. How do you know each other?"

"I chose him," answered Thorn abruptly, and this caused Selena to turn again, folding her hands behind her.

"I found a group of children being held by slave traders," interjected Murtagh. "Thorn was among them, and he joined me because he had no one else."

"I could have chosen anyone else." Thorn stuck his nose up in the air and looked straight ahead, offended. "However, I chose you." Murtagh shot him a pointed look, but Thorn was ignoring him.

Selena exhaled what sounded like a laugh. "Slave traders, hmm? It sounds like you like to get into trouble."

"Not particularly—" began Murtagh, but Thorn cut him off.

"Yes, he does." The child scowled down at Murtagh, and he was not teasing. "If it is not one thing, it is another." Now there was a steady growl in his voice, a comical sound from a child's lips. "Sometimes I do not know if he is wise or a fool. One moment he has a clever plan to eradicate a great number of Ra'zac, and the next moment I wonder if he has any thought in his mind at all." Murtagh opened his mouth to speak, but Thorn vented, "And on many occasions it is easier to counsel a rock than it is him."

Murtagh sputtered and laughed, mouth gaping in disbelief. His cheeks burned. At a loss for words, all he could utter was, "Thorn!"

"I see," Selena murmured, and she covered her lips with a hand to withhold a chuckle. Briefly she walked straight and surveyed the path, and then she faced him again. All the while, she maintained a steady pace. Her features melted into a gentle look of longing and hopefulness. "Forgive me for being abrupt, but may I ask a favor of you?" When Murtagh nodded, she asked, "Could you please tell me about Eragon?"

Murtagh slowed. Concerned wormed its way across her features, and she stopped and shifted in place. He stopped, too, to keep from reaching her. "I doubt I have much information to offer that you don't already know."

"I know very little," Selena explained. Her body stilled and her shoulders sank. The life in her eyes ebbed away. "You see, I parted with Eragon when he was but an infant, and I have not seen him since."

It took a long while for Murtagh to muster the courage to ask, "Why did you leave him?"

Brom stopped a ways ahead, turning back.

Selena clasped the fabric over her chest, and the mud at her feet held her attention for several seconds. "I was aiding the Varden, though I do not recall how or where. I simply had to leave, for there was something else I needed to do. I had every intention of returning to him, but my life was taken from me."

"You do not recall," began Murtagh to Brom, "where she was going or what she was doing?"

"Why the interest?" Brom tapped the end of his walking stick into the mud. Perhaps he did remember and simply decided not to say.

"Only because it seems strange." Murtagh took a staggered breath, and he shook from nervous energy.

"He does not remember either, only that we worked together against the Empire," Selena explained. She did not hesitate to say so, for she trusted far easier than Brom. "I was an informant, and he was my point of contact with the Varden."

Murtagh nodded, and Brom continued walking. Selena waited for a response to her initial request, and when it seemed as though she would not receive it, she turned her back to Murtagh and continued on her way. Uncomfortable silence prevailed.

_Why did you leave him?_  How could he ask a question like that? It was awful and underhanded. It was hardly for Eragon, either. Murtagh wanted to know how she could have left  _him._  He had wanted to know his entire life how his mother could leave him with Morzan—with Galbatorix. How she could leave him and save only her second child. Many times he tried to make sense of it, to reason with himself that she had no choice, but it still stung.

Even so, causing her harm was never his intention. Her smile and laughter, Murtagh wanted to protect them.

Barely above a whisper, he said, "Eragon is everything you have heard and likely more."

Everyone stopped, forcing him to do the same lest he catch up with them. He preferred his distance. Selena stared at him, her lower lip trembling. "What?"

"Everything you hear of him is true," Murtagh explained, and his voice grew in strength and volume. "Among swordsmen and users of magic, he is second to none. He defeated a Shade, overcame a manipulative king, and took responsibility for the future of all Dragon Riders. In all of these things has he been dedicated and fearless, never wavering."

Thorn stared hard at him. A year ago, this sort of talk would have been nigh impossible for Murtagh. He was envious of his younger brother and the life he lived, from the compassion his mother showed him to the people who elevated him high not for anything yet done but simply because he was a Rider. Envy readily turned to anger. Nevertheless, he had much time to reflect on such things in the past year, and now he could praise Eragon and mean it. Even so, Thorn knew how difficult it was for him.

"What was he like? How did he behave? What did he enjoy eating? What did he enjoy doing?" Selena rubbed her hands together in front of her, breathless as she rambled. "What did he look like? Had he finished growing? Was he healthy? Was he—"

"Selena," Brom called out, softly.

She gasped and then bowed her head to Murtagh. "Forgive me. I got carried away."

"You will have to ask someone else for answers to most of those questions," Murtagh told her, and his chest ached because he could not do more for her. "He and I spent very little time together after we reached the Varden. I witnessed some of his exploits during the war but little else. His time with the Varden and thereafter changed him considerably."

"I understand." With shoulders low, she turned and continued walking. Brom went ahead of them, setting the pace.

Once again she made a sorrowful face on Murtagh's account. It hurt, and his foot bounced on the ground. In the surrounding area, several stones protruded from the mud. Most were jagged, too small or too large, but he managed to find one with a wide, smooth surface. It was hooked into the ground, and he had to use magic to break it off. Lifting the flat piece, he cleaned it with the edge of his cloak.

"I can show you," Murtagh said, causing them to face him again. Once more, he stopped in his tracks. "I can show you what he looks like."

Selena stopped at a distance, filled with hope but also disbelief. It was too good a promise, and it would be a cruel thing if he did not deliver. Brom waited but tapped his staff in the mud, frustrated by the constant distractions and the potential for Murtagh to harm her again.

Murtagh would not, though. His varied feelings for Eragon would make the task challenging, but he hoped he could at least give her some idea of what he looked like now. He could not entirely push away his bitterness and envy, but he had many other things that mattered more: his respect for Eragon, his desire to be as brothers with him, and his hope for all future Riders under Eragon's leadership.

So, with both hands cradling the stone, he poured all of his thoughts of Eragon into it, focusing as best he could, and spoke words of magic to bring the image to life. It was easier to concentrate with his eyes closed, and strength left him, slight though it was, and then he opened his eyes. Even Murtagh was surprised.

Across the smooth surface of the stone was an image of not only Eragon but Saphira as well. Eragon was princely with his elf-like features, and he carried the shining blue blade called Brisingr like a skilled warrior. In the background, a shimmering blue dragon dipped through the sky. The colors moved across the stone as though alive. It was an acceptable  _fairth_ , for he had never created one before.

Murtagh brought the stone to Selena and offered it to her. As soon as she took it, he retreated and placed a proper amount of distance between. She remained expressionless as her eyes skimmed the stone, and he thought at first she did not like it. Brom approached and inspected it over her shoulder, his thick eyebrows rising.

"This is… Eragon," she breathed, and her voice wavered.

"It is a good likeness," Brom decided after careful consideration. "Though I do not recall him looking so much like an elf."

It was not worth describing to him the changes Eragon went through, for Murtagh did not understand them himself. Brom was suspicious and likely would not be convinced until Eragon himself appeared before him and told him everything, and Murtagh understood those sentiments well enough. He would not resist him.

"He…" Selena started, and her lip quivered. Salty streams ran down her face as tears slipped from her eyes, and she pressed her fingers against the cool surface of the stone. Withholding a sob, she said, "He is beautiful." Turning, she found Brom beside her, and she smiled even as she cried. "Our son is beautiful." Engulfing the tablet in her arms, Selena held it to her heart. With a trembling voice, she told Murtagh, "Thank you."

Murtagh nodded but said nothing.

Selena held the stone preciously as though holding her child, and then she continued walking along the path with slow, light steps. Brom touched her shoulder as she passed him, gave Murtagh one last scrutinizing look, and then followed her. They walked close together, and Brom often touched her shoulder or her back. Their expressions when they looked at each other were full of affection, and their conversation was nothing but whispers, intimate.

Knowing so, Murtagh remained far behind.

Thorn fell in step beside Murtagh, and his face was twisted unpleasantly. "I do not need to be a dragon to know how you feel."

"I will be fine," Murtagh promised, and he managed a tired smile. "You need not worry."

"But I do."

"I know." Murtagh's smile faltered. For once he was thankful his connection with Thorn was broken. The strangling grip on his heart was something he did not want to share. "Thank you."

Thorn set the horse's pace to keep up with Murtagh, and they went together, side by side, the rest of the way to Narda.

\-----

Dark clouds swirled in the sky, curtaining waning sunlight and casting the world in shadows. Wet wind gusted off the ocean and chilled to the bone, but Narda had strong walls built up against the wind and the sea. A few stray raindrops fell, nipping bare skin with their cold bite. Dark trees reached out of the ground like dry, weathered hands with gnarled fingers, and most of their golden leaves fluttered away on the wind.

Both Murtagh and Selena struggled to maintain warming magic. By the time they reached Narda's gates, they were in dire need of a fire, blankets, and beds.

Yet neither fire nor light lit the city that evening, and not a single person could be found inside the city walls. The gates were wide open and unguarded. Merchant carts full of pelts and decaying fish lined the streets as though set out and then long forgotten. Abandoned and scattered throughout the town were articles of significant importance to the citizens of Narda, including fishing supplies and satchels full of crowns. A door in a side alley creaked in the wind.

"Where is everyone?" Selena asked what everyone was thinking. She pressed her hand to the window of a nearby shop, squinting to see inside.

"Something unnatural happened here." Thorn moved his mount down the street, eyeing the items that had been discarded. Currency, tools that maintained people's livelihoods, a child's ragged doll, all thrown to the ground without concern.

"Check the shops and houses," suggested Brom, and he quickly parted from them and knocked on doors in search of life. If ever a building was unlocked, he would open the door slightly and poke inside with his staff before entering.

Selena went her way, and Murtagh went his. He did not have to search with his eyes, for he had already scanned the city with his mind. Not a trace of life remained, not even an insect. When he probed Narda, he found it painfully empty in a way he did not understand, as though the city itself was only an illusion. More than hollow, it leeched his strength.

His heart skipped a beat and then another.

It was difficult to notice in the darkness. Black fog began to seep out of the ground, between stones and out of the dirt, rising about a foot before dissipating into the air. Wind rolled the dark mist across the ground until a thin, translucent blanket covered Narda. It swept up the sides of houses and billowed upwards along the city walls.

Murtagh's stomach churned, and before he could fully think it through, he screamed at his companions, "Get out of the city!" Thorn was nearest to him, but Selena and Brom came back from where they had gone. Brom began to question him, but he only yelled louder, "We have to get out! Now!"

When the ground trembled beneath their feet, they complied and ran for the city gate. Murtagh allowed each to pass him by—first Thorn on the horse, then Selena and lastly Brom—and then turned his back to them, drawing his bow and an arrow. Pulling the drawstring tight, he took aim at the air.

"Murtagh," Thorn called out for him, pausing near the gate. Selena snatched hold of the horse's bridle in order to keep the child from returning. The earth rocked back and forth, shattering windows and tipping carts until the streets were strewn with litter

Dark mist curled into the air, forming a thick fog, and then it streamed into a swirling vortex in the center of the city. Out of the vortex slipped a massive paw like that of a dragon, with dexterous digits and enormous claws, though it was made entirely of a churning black substance like mud. The paw hit the street with a resounding boom that made a nearby house shudder, and its claws dug through stone as if through thin parchment. A second paw followed shortly after, claws digging deep for stability, and then a monstrous creature hauled itself out of the dirt.

It had a head like a Lethrblaka with a sharp beak, a torso like that of a man, and a lower half like that of a serpent. Its entire form was made of mud-like darkness that was constantly moving, shifting like shadows. It lifted its head high and shrieked, shattering any windows that remained intact and destroying the very foundation of the nearest houses. Within its powerful voice were words that could not be understood.

Murtagh launched his arrow. It whistled through the air and struck the creature between its gleaming, pure white eyes, but the sharp point bounced off without effect and clattered to the ground. The monster twisted at the blow and cast its empty gaze upon Murtagh, unleashing a heinous growl and then another roar. All were words but all were unintelligible.

"Murtagh, get away from it!" Thorn screamed at him, snapping Murtagh out of a bewildered stupor.

All throughout the city, a dark fog crawled up and over houses and walls. Then, just as with the elderly woman in Aroughs, everything within Narda began to fade into a mist, falling apart piece by piece. Roofs crumbled and drifted away into the air, then walls and lastly the foundation on which the city stood.

As the ground shuddered beneath him, Murtagh had no choice but to turn and run out the city gate after the others.

Before their eyes, the city fell apart into darkness, whisked away on a harsh wind. And as Narda vanished, the monster grew in size. It stared at Murtagh, waiting, and bellowed again words that no one could understand in a high-pitched scream. The horse reared and snorted, and Thorn pulled his arms over his head to cover his ears while maintaining his grip on the reins. Selena and Brom both clapped their hands over their ears.

Murtagh watched and listened.

Narda vanished like a mist, and all that remained in its place was dry, dead earth and the monstrous creature that continued to grow in size, darkness swirling around it and gradually building upon its form. It roared again, and then it clawed its way forward, and all the while it remained wholly focused on Murtagh, never blinking.

"What is that thing?" gasped Selena barely above a whisper.

"I have never seen anything like it," Brom said, panting between words.

Murtagh could not bring himself to speak, not yet. The creature was some sort of twisted spirit, of this he was certain. It resembled the very thing that stepped out of Eragon in the dragon's keep, though now it was larger and far more powerful. It knew Murtagh and hated him, and he was fully aware of it. He could not understand its words, but he understood its sentiments just as he knew the intimate thoughts of the spirit residing in his head.

With a snarl, the monster slithered across the ground, and everything near it died. As it passed from the dead earth of Narda, grass withered and melted away to dust.

"Move," Brom ordered, and he ushered Selena and Thorn away. Murtagh, too, but he ignored him. "Murtagh!"

It was fine if the creature hated him, for Murtagh hated it right back. Instead of retreating, he took aim with another arrow and stepped forward, ignoring the protests of his companions behind him. Charging the arrow with powerful magic, he let it fly. Blue flames rippled off the arrowhead as it sailed through the air, and this time it planted in the creature's eye. Nevertheless, the monster tipped its head, and the arrow disengaged and hit the ground.

With every step, the monster shook the coast, created waves upon the ocean, and made the distant mountains groan. It was almost the size of Shruikan now, nearly a mountain in its own right. As it advanced, Thorn and the others retreated save Murtagh. He shot several more magic-imbued arrows, aiming at every part of the spirit in an effort to find a weakness. Then, he advanced, too.

"Murtagh!" Thorn screamed, desperate in his tone. He started to turn the horse around, but both Brom and Selena restrained his mount.

"Foolishness!" yelled Brom. "Come back here, boy!"

Again, the monster roared and forced all to cower at the piercing sound, yet not Murtagh. He slipped the bow into place at his back, and then he raised a single hand. It was concealed by his glove, but the gedwëy ignasia upon his palm overflowed with raw magical power. His skin burned. The monster hissed an incomprehensible word, and then Murtagh did as well, slicing his hand through the air.

A line of white light flashed across the ground between them, and then rays like the first light of dawn reached out of the ground and built a wall between them. Murtagh spoke words that he had never learned but somehow understood, twisting his fingers in the air to control the spell as it left his lips. A second line, followed closely by a third and a fourth, rippled across the ground and rose into the air until the creature was trapped in a box of light.

It attempted to claw its way out, but as soon as it touched the wall with its paw, an explosion followed that severed the limb. The monster snarled and screamed, shaking the earth with its great power. The horse panicked and threw Thorn to the ground, and Selena and Brom crumbled, covering their heads.

Murtagh stared the creature in the eyes. "You will not win," he said, and then he held forward his palm.

The monstrous spirit hissed _._

Murtagh snapped his open hand into a fist. The box of light crumbled inward. The dark spirit unleashed a shrill scream, and then its body exploded along with the spell containing it. White rays of light touched the sky and rolled across the coast like an uncontrollable river. Overhead, the clouds were ripped apart, overcome by the red-orange glow of sunset.

Then, the creature and the white lights vanished, and all that remained was the hollow ground where once stood the city of Narda.

Coming back into himself, Murtagh blinked several times and dropped his hand to his side. He was not entirely certain what he had done or how he knew to do it. In the process of using spells foreign to him, he was fine, unaffected by the monster's voice or the use of so much magic. Now, however, his strength poured out of him. He wavered and had to lower himself to one knee, pressing a hand to the ground for stability.

"Are you all right?" Brom asked, approaching him. He remained at a slight distance, concerned but also wary.

All right was definitely a lie, but Murtagh nodded regardless. His head throbbed, and crushing pain gripped his chest. The world twisted around him until he closed his eyes so as not to see it, but it still did not help. Sick to his stomach, he swallowed several times as bile crawled into his throat.

Behind him, Thorn and Selena attempted to calm the horse. When the reins were in Selena's hands, Thorn abandoned them and ran to Murtagh's side, leaning until their faces nearly touched. "Are you hurt? What happened?" Thorn patted him in several places and then tugged on the front of his jerkin, forcing his head up. Murtagh met eyes with him, and Thorn was close to tears. "Answer me!"

"I… am tired," said Murtagh after much consideration, and then he rested his head on Thorn's shoulder. Thorn wrapped his arms around Murtagh's head, his tiny hands gasping at handfuls of his hair.

"We should put some distance between us and here," Brom explained, and then he approached to help with Murtagh. "Therinsford is not far. We should hurry."

No one argued.


	10. Lost is Found

Brom helped Murtagh onto the horse, and Murtagh in turn pulled Thorn up in front of him. Shortly after, he leaned forward upon his partner's back and drifted in and out of consciousness. The chilled air stabbed his lungs, and he winced with every breath. Even the sound of twigs breaking under the hooves of the horse was like a hammer to his throbbing head. Sleep was preferable to the pain, but it was fleeting.

They ventured into the Spine, mountains usually covered by thick forests and abundant wildlife. Now it was cold and barren, and most trees had lost their cover. The ground was crunchy with dried leaves and frost.

Murtagh drifted to sleep, and when he awoke, he was on the ground in front of a fire. It still hurt to breathe, but his headache and nausea had finally eased. His cloak was set over him like a blanket.

Thorn sat on his knees at Murtagh's head, facing the fire. His eyebrows were knitted together, orange firelight flashing in his feline eyes. On the opposite side of the fire, Selena was burrowed in her cloak and Brom's, and her face was pale and faint. Her eyelids would flutter, and then she would awake with a start. Beside her, Brom rolled a few lizard skewers near the flames. It was a sad dinner, and Murtagh regretted not having the strength to hunt for them.

Grimacing as his muscles burned in protest, Murtagh forced himself upright. Thorn jumped in surprise and then pressed his small hands against him in an effort to stop him from moving, but Murtagh was stronger.

Night had fallen, and the air was frigid. Selena was too weary to maintain a spell for warmth and so Murtagh took on the task himself. Immediately, a bubble of heat wrapped around them, and with the help of the fire, it did not take much strength to maintain.

"You should eat," Brom said, and he offered him one of the skewers.

Murtagh accepted, and then Thorn and Selena received one as well. They ate, and the crackling fire was the only break in the silence. Even after they finished, no one spoke. Too many thoughts ran through their heads of unspeakable things. Together they had witnessed an entire city swept away in a blink, and no one had any explanation for it. Even though Murtagh knew it was a spirit, he could not say why or how.

Furthermore, he did not understand the words of the dark spirit or even the spells he had uttered to defeat it. He had fought with magic, that much was for certain, but he had never learned those spells.

It brought his attention back to the spirit asleep in his mind, and he stabbed at it with his thoughts in an effort to stir it from its slumber.  _Wake up,_  he demanded.  _I know this has everything to do with you. Wake up!_  Yet the spirit did not react at all and simply existed, quiet and numb, like a forgotten memory tucked away at the back of his mind.

All around them, the world was falling apart, and the one spirit that had reached out in their defense was taking a nap. Murtagh gritted his teeth and tried jabbing it one last time to no avail. An entire city had vanished. Now more than ever Murtagh remembered his need to speed his course to Ellesméra, and he felt a pang of guilt for selfishly delaying as he had.

Frustrated, he rubbed his face.

"Are you hurt?" Thorn finally asked, and he gripped Murtagh's sleeve.

"Only tired," answered Murtagh, and it was mostly true.

"Do you have a fever?" Thorn stared hard at Murtagh, and then he patted him down in several places as if to check. Murtagh did not have the energy to fight him and sat still. Thorn was not familiar with what he was checking for, however, and his cheeks puffed up. In frustration, he nipped at Murtagh's arm.

"Cut it out," Murtagh laughed, leaning away from him.

"That is  _not_  how one checks for a fever," Selena explained, and she chuckled. Returning one cloak to Brom, she rose and made her way around the fire. Kneeling beside Thorn, she gently cupped her hand over the child's forehead and then his cheek. "Like this." With a smile, she next turned her hand over and rested the back of it against Thorn's forehead, and then she used her wrist. "These ways work as well and sometimes better."

Thorn blinked at his palm and then spun, slapping his hand on Murtagh's face with enough force to nearly topple him.

"Thorn!" he snapped, and then he laughed again. Well, his headache was back.

"He is hot like fire!" Thorn yelped, oblivious to the harm he had unintentionally caused. The child crawled over Murtagh and touched every inch of his face, letting out a gasp each time.

Murtagh gave up trying to support the extra weight and simply collapsed to the ground, and Thorn sat on his chest. "Do you mind?"

"The boy has some unusual… mannerisms," Brom noted with a hint of amusement. His blue eyes shone in the firelight. "How long has he been your ward?"

Murtagh's cheeks burned, and he sputtered. This was not  _his_  fault! Then again, perhaps it was. As his Rider, perhaps Murtagh should have spent more time teaching Thorn about human customs. Nevertheless, Thorn never had hands with which to check for fever, so it certainly never came up.

Selena's face brightened at the exchange, and a bit of color came back to her. She took a waterskin from beside Brom and brought it to Murtagh. He shoved Thorn into fallen leaves and dirt with a crunch, and then he accepted the skin and drank.

"You used some very unusual magic," Selena commented, returning to her place at Brom's side. There was a hint of skepticism in her words as she added, "It should not be a surprise to have a fever after that. Most anyone else would be dead."

Murtagh gave the waterskin to Thorn and allowed the child to drink his fill. He dared not look at anyone and stared instead at the fire.

"Where did you learn magic?" asked Brom, though his initial distrust was gone. Now he was simply curious.

It was a dangerous question, and to answer honestly meant giving away Thorn's true identity while also letting them know that Galbatorix himself had trained Murtagh, neither of which Murtagh wanted them to know. Thorn, on the other hand, did not care either way. He sipped on water and then fastened the waterskin and set it aside without concern.

"I learned from a friend," Murtagh told them after much consideration, and he was referring only to Thorn. What he learned from Galbatorix was powerful but useful only for hurting and killing, and he took little pride now in that. Tiredly, he added, "You will find many who are more skilled than I."

"Perhaps among elves and Riders," commented Brom, and he crossed his arms and leaned back. Selena unconsciously leaned against him for warmth, and Murtagh looked away.

"I have decided," Murtagh said with some hesitation, and he cast his gaze upon the flickering flames. "I will escort you to Carvahall, but then I must move on to Ellesméra from there." Apologetically he looked from Selena to Brom. "I will not be able to continue looking for Eragon until after I speak with the elves."

"Because of what happened in Narda?" Selena asked, and she drew the cloak around her more tightly. Brom laid his across his lap but also offered some to Selena, bringing them closer still.

"You know something of that thing." Brom was scrutinizing Murtagh again, his face wrinkled in a frown. "And why the world changes as it does."

Murtagh nodded slightly and then abruptly shook his head, ruffling his hair. "Nothing of use, I am afraid."

Brom read his expression and dropped the subject. He leaned back against a fallen log. "Therinsford should only be a day or so from here. From there, Carvahall is not far. Let us hope nothing else stands in our way." He glanced at Selena, and his face softened. "We are in need of rest, and the weather here simply will not allow it."

"Weather and circumstances," sighed Murtagh, and he slid to the ground. Thorn crawled beneath the cloak and curled up at his side.

"This is the second time you have saved us," Selena said, softly. "Thank you, Murtagh."

He met eyes with her for only a second, nodded, and then he rolled over. Brom and Selena spoke quietly to each other, but the fire drowned out their voices. With Thorn at his side and the extra warmth from his body, it did not take long for Murtagh to fall asleep.

\-----

The trip to Therinsford was uneventful yet disorienting. Soft gray clouds rolled across the sky, and white snowflakes fluttered down. By the time they reached the small town, the ground was covered by a blanket of white. Murtagh managed to keep up the spell that warmed them for most of the trip, but finally he succumbed to exhaustion and had to stop. Selena was also too weary, so they depended on their cloaks for warmth. Thorn rode on the horse with Murtagh and became so frustrated with the cold that he took Murtagh's arms and cloak and wrapped them around him tightly. Beneath his covers, he sneezed several times.

Therinsford was quiet and peaceful. People carried on with simple tasks despite the snow and cold, running mills, working at the forge, or shopping in the tiny outdoor market. Children scrambled to pick up the snow and throw it at each other before it could melt.

"I will see if I can find a place for us to stay," Brom offered. Wandering further into town, he spoke with the people he passed along the way.

Murtagh slid off the horse, and his legs nearly gave way beneath him. After a moment, his strength returned to him and he could stand proper, and he took charge of the horse's reins. Thorn hopped off after him, pulling Murtagh's cloak around him for warmth.

"Thankfully, nothing appears to be strange here," Selena commented.

"Besides the snow." Murtagh scanned the village. Everyone was bundled up in thick woolen clothing and heavy cloaks, and they carried on as though nothing was strange about it. "It should be summer."

Selena leaned to one side, shifting impatiently, and then she took a step forward. "I think I will see about a warm meal for us, as well as where we might purchase supplies. Carvahall is not far, but the weather will make the journey harsh."

Murtagh nodded, and she departed. He kept his eyes on her until she went into a small building, and then he pulled the horse along toward a post and trough set near the entrance for use by travelers. Breaking the ice in the trough, he used magic to fill it with water, and then he fed the horse the last of the food they had brought for it. A hearty meal after a long journey was well deserved, and he made a mental note to purchase more before leaving.

"You humans are frail," said Thorn with chattering teeth. He climbed on Murtagh's feet in an effort to stay beneath his cloak. "If I had my true body, this weather would not affect me."

"Maybe you can show me a little empathy next time we're out in the snow, eh?" Murtagh led the way down the street, and Thorn did not leave his person. The child clung fast to him, and in response to his comment, Thorn bit his arm. Murtagh jerked and thumped the boy in the chest. "Would you stop biting me?" This earned him a nip to the side, and if not for his leather jerkin, it may have left a mark. "Thorn!"

Sighing in exasperation, Murtagh continued through town. There was very little to see, and he stopped at a tiny shop that sold spirits and tobacco. Outside the shop was a weathered bulletin board half covered in rot and unreadable parchment. Above old notices was a new post, and it made Murtagh's jaw drop.

On the parchment were his name and his likeness, as well as a notice about a hefty reward for his capture. His crime was illegal use of deadly magic. The parchment was stamped with the seals of both Orrin and Nasuada. In a flash, he ripped it off the board and crumpled it in his hands, and he could not stop shaking.

"What is it?" Thorn asked, peering out from beneath his cloak.

Murtagh gave it to him but explained, "I am a wanted fugitive, it seems."

"What for?" Unraveling the crumpled parchment, Thorn frowned at it.

"Magic," he answered.

Shuddering, he recalled using magic from Aroughs all the way to Kuasta and the unnecessary attention it brought to him. Someone—or several people—along the way must have reported him. Murtagh had heard of Nasuada's attempts to control the use of magic, and here he was wandering across Alagaësia blowing things up. His actions had been to protect people, and so he hoped to go unnoticed, but anyone with a grudge against magic would have refused to overlook someone so powerful.

"What do we do?" Thorn asked, crumpling the paper and stuffing it into his leather vest for safekeeping.

"Not get caught," answered Murtagh with a sigh.

"Murtagh! Thorn!" Selena called out to them from halfway through the town, and she waved at them so they could see her. "Come here!"

In the center of the town was a popular bake house, and several people gathered for fresh, warm bread and treats. A busty woman scuttled around and served the people around a fire, and she gave them not only baked goods but warm milk or warm liquor as well. It was the largest gathering in the town yet to be seen. Brom stood near the door of the bake house and was talking to a burly man in thick, furry clothes. Selena led Murtagh and Thorn to the fire, and they crouched near it for warmth. Eventually the woman returned with warm bread and milk for them, and they accepted with gratitude.

It was not an extravagant meal, but it warmed them after being chilled to the core for so long.

A man wearing dulled chainmail spoke to the people around the fire, waving his arms in grand fashions. His face was haggard, and his beard and mustache were unkempt. Tears in his clothes and broken links in his armor suggested he was not currently a knight and only acted the part.

"I traveled across the land," he declared in a boisterous voice. "All across the land have the seasons changed as you see! The desert is covered in ice, and the ice on the Beor Mountains melts away!" He spun and twirled, moving his hand as if wielding a sword. Murtagh picked apart his technique in three seconds and determined he had never used a sword before. "Monsters of darkness attacked my comrades, but we fought to the death and I alone escaped to tell the tale! Dwarves, elves, and Urgals fought me, but I resisted!" Children clapped in amazement. "Our beloved queen has forbidden magic in the land, and now the land itself has protested, and magic is no more! All of the dragons and Riders have fallen, the elves have perished, and only we remain!"

Muttering broke out in the crowd, and two children booed the man and pulled down their lower eyelids in spite of his story.

"All of the dragons have fallen," muttered Thorn, and he growled. "Foolish man he is, as if dragons would surrender because of the reign of one tiny human."

"There may be truth to his words," said Brom, and he approached them, standing near the fire for warmth. "Several people have confirmed they hear tales from travelers that magic has been lost. Those who try to use magic either simply cannot or perish in their attempt." Firmly he looked at Selena. "We should resist using magic unless absolutely necessary until we can know for certain what is happening." Casting a glance at Murtagh, he added, "I would suggest the same to you."

"I thought I was simply tired," Selena mused, touching her lips. "But using warming spells is usually not so exhausting."

"Magic has been lost," Thorn echoed while staring at the warm milk in his mug. He folded both hands around the mug for warmth and took another sip.

"Therinsford does not have an inn, but the people are hospitable," Brom informed them. "An older woman name Lauri has agreed to take us in for the night."

Selena sighed in relief, rubbing her brow.

Murtagh drank the warm milk and then rose, handing it back to their host as she scrambled by. "Thank you," he told her. To his traveling companions, he said, "I am going to gather supplies for the horse."

"W-wait!" Thorn poured the rest of his milk down in a single gulp. He yelped and stuck out his tongue, flapping his hand at it and puffing out hot air, and then he rose to follow.

Selena folded her hands behind her, shifting back and forth on her feet. "We should gather some supplies as well." To Brom, she asked, "Shall we?"

Together they ambled through town. Thorn slipped back, shielded by Murtagh, and tossed the crumpled parchment stating Murtagh's crimes into a small cooking fire near someone's home. Then he scrambled back into place at Murtagh's side, sticking his nose up as though he had accomplished some great task. Murtagh smirked.

After hitting two different shops and temporarily parting with Brom and Selena, Murtagh purchased enough supplies to take them hopefully to Ceunon if not all the way to Ellesméra. Thankfully, he could get by pretty well in the forest on his own simply by hunting. He picked up warmer clothing for him and for Thorn, as well as a woolen blanket for the horse.

Returning to the horse, Murtagh covered it with a blanket to ward off the chill. Patting the creature, he said, "I suppose we should give you a name since it seems you will be with us now for a while."

Thorn rubbed his chin, and then he nodded. "How about Sand, since that is his color?" Murtagh frowned and shook his head. "What about Desert, since that is where we met him?" Again, Murtagh could not accept it, and so Thorn lost interest.

Beneath the snow was a sandy stone path that led through the town. Its color, in fact, was very much the same color as the horse. Murtagh straightened and patted the creature. "How about Sandstorm?" he wondered, and the horse nudged its nose against him. Murtagh smiled and stroked its neck. "You like that, do you? In the desert we found you, and in many storms have you saved us from harm. I think it suits you."

Murtagh removed the saddle from the horse and set it aside to take with to their temporary lodging. Now if only someone could lend a place at a stable for Sandstorm. On the edge of town were several small barns made of weathered and crooked boards, but at least they would provide shelter from the wind.

Untying the reins from the post, Murtagh turned the horse around and then paused as Selena and Brom came out of a shop laughing. Selena leaned against him, and whenever she laughed, her eyes brightened, and her mouth opened wide. She laughed honestly and deeply, and nothing hindered her.

Murtagh's eyes fell, and he stared into the trough at his feet. His reflection rippled across the surface, his complexion strangely pale and accented by dark rings under his eyes. With a swift kick to the side of the trough, he dissolved his image. The ripples stirred in hues of gray.

Then guilt tugged his gut. It had been a while since he had attempted to scry Eragon. In his exhaustion after the incident in Narda, he had completely forgotten. With one last glance at Selena, Murtagh sighed and crouched over the water, focusing his thoughts on his lost sibling. Darkness blurred over the surface of the water just as it always had.

And then Eragon appeared.

Murtagh's heart skipped a beat. He dropped the reins of the horse and pressed both hands to the side of the trough, leaning over the water.

Eragon was unconscious and fastened to a stone table by leather straps. He was filthy. Beyond him were stone floors and walls, as well as various devices for torture. Scrying did not allow one to see a place they had never been, but Murtagh  _had_  been there. Twice, in fact, once by mistake and once because he was brought there to be taught a lesson. Chills overwhelmed him, and he gasped for air.

The image shattered, and Murtagh flew to his feet and threw the saddle back on the horse.

Thorn jumped at his sudden activity. "What is the matter?"

"Get to Carvahall and wait there," Murtagh shouted to Selena and Brom as they approached, and he leapt into the saddle.

"Did something happen?" Selena asked, picking up her pace as she and Brom returned to them.

Thorn started to climb up on the horse, but Murtagh grabbed the back of his vest and hoisted him into Brom's arms. The older man took the boy, eyes wide. "Murtagh!" whined Thorn, and at first he was angry followed quickly by genuine hurt and confusion. "What are you—"

"Go to Carvahall," Murtagh demanded, and then he focused solely on Thorn. "If it seems I will not return, go to the elves or Nasuada and tell them everything. Do you understand?"

"Where are you going?" cried Thorn, reaching desperately and trying to get out of Brom's arms. The man held him fast.

"Please," Murtagh nodded at Thorn and then at Brom who now had charge of him. Last of all he met eyes with Selena, and his heart pounded so hard in his chest that it made him lightheaded. Turning the horse, he dug in his heels. With the words of a promise, he said, "I am going to bring Eragon back to you."

Sandstorm took off in a gallop, and Murtagh ducked low so as to create little resistance. It was a journey he never expected to make—or wanted to make—for the rest of his life. Yet Eragon was in danger, and it kindled a fire in him that was not so easily snuffed out.

With unwavering resolve, Murtagh set a straight course for Morzan's castle.


	11. Heterochromia Iridum

Murtagh left Sandstorm and the supplies behind deep in the forest, concealed and protected by magic. He removed everything from the horse and left food and water in the hopes that it would stay, but if it needed to flee, he gave it the freedom.

Just beyond the decaying forest in the foothills of the Spine was Morzan's castle. Its tall walls were covered in moss and vines, and many of the stones were beginning to crumble due to wear. The elegant gardens had grown over, and the walking paths around the exterior of the castle were lost under dirt and weeds. Several windows were broken. After his father's death and after Galbatorix had Murtagh brought to Urû'baen, the castle was abandoned.

Only one other time had he seen the castle from the outside like this, on the day he was leaving it behind for good. Murtagh had been a prisoner inside for the first three years of his life, and only rarely was he allowed outside and never far enough to take in the full view. It was smaller than he remembered.

Remaining in the shadows of the trees, Murtagh searched the castle and its surroundings for signs of life or movement. Several lizards, insects, and rodents had claimed the citadel for themselves, but otherwise it was empty enough. Depending on his earliest memories, he directed his attention towards a far tower of the castle. Sure enough, he found a single human presence there, though he could gather nothing else from his search.

Murtagh broke the connection and took a step out of the forest, but a trill shriek turned him on his heels. A great shadow fell over the castle as an enormous Lethrblaka swooped out of the sky. It circled the castle's perimeter, its single good eye flicking back and forth over the terrain in search of prey. Of course this would not be easy. Murtagh was still exhausted and doubted a fight with the Lethrblaka would go in his favor.

Nevertheless, Eragon was inside, and Murtagh was not leaving him there.

The path to the castle offered little protection from prying eyes, and the fresh layer of snow would reveal his footprints. Even if he disguised himself with magic, his presence would definitely be known, and if he chose the wrong disguise—like a delicious deer—the Lethrblaka would still try to eat him and blow his cover in the process. Murtagh only had to get into the castle, and it was not far, but it was still nigh impossible.

Several times he plotted a course using magic, and finally he decided his biggest opponent was the snow. It would reveal his presence no matter what shape he took, and so he simply decided to avoid the ground altogether.

Murtagh cast a handful of spells over himself, including one that lifted him like a feather on a breeze. His feet walked across the air like on solid ground, for it was actually the air he was manipulating and not his own body. Strength ebbed out of him far quicker than he liked. He put upon himself an illusion that the Lethrblaka would hardly think twice about. In the guise of a little brown bird, he flitted through the air towards the castle.

Sure enough, the Lethrblaka did not notice the distortion in the air, nor did it care about the presence of a bird. It continued with its loop around the castle, shrieking occasionally and tilting its head so it could get a clearer view of the ground. One eye must have been a bit of a nuisance. Murtagh grinned in smug satisfaction. He hoped the rock was still stuck in its head.

Beyond the castle walls and into a broken window he flew, and then Murtagh erased his disguise. He staggered when he landed and collapsed against a wall, panting to catch his breath. Even with a spirit in his head, he was pushing his luck using magic as he did. His muscles tightened from pain, and he was dizzy and sick. A familiar tightness built in his chest, and he withheld a cough.

The corridor he landed in was on the opposite side of the castle from where he wanted to be. Thankfully, he knew his way around at least well enough to get himself to the other side. Ignoring his exhaustion, he pressed forward.

Lamps on the walls were broken or removed completely, runners made of fine linen no longer covered the floors, and portraits and paintings no longer adorned the walls. In less than twenty years, thieves had done a number on the place. Anything of gold or silver, even hinges on heavy wood doors, had been stripped away. Several wood doors, in fact, were gone.

The heavy scent of mildew hung in the air.

Murtagh made his way through the castle and purposefully kept his mind blank. He did not want to think about his time here. Yet as he drew near to the tower he was seeking, his thoughts wandered to his father's study nearby. He had never realized it then, but Morzan kept his workspace near to his tower where he tortured people. How fitting.

The door to the tower had fallen off its hinges and leaned in the frame. Murtagh stepped around it and reached a winding staircase. Sunlight filtered in through several high windows and lit his way.

Overhead, the Lethrblaka shrieked, and briefly, its powerful wings beat the air just beyond the walls. Murtagh moved away from a window and held his breath until the sound departed. Then he continued forward.

At the top of the staircase was a heavy door with two bars across the outside to serve as locks. They were stiff and rusty, so Murtagh rammed them with his entire body weight, one by one, to move them. The door creaked open.

Murtagh froze, staring into the dark room. A part of the high ceiling was broken, and a shaft of light illuminated the stone table on which Eragon lay. His sibling was still and quiet.

A single torch flickered on the far wall. Various instruments for torture were scattered around the stone platform, some broken and some not, and they were particularly heinous in the flashing light of the weak fire.

When he had been a child, Murtagh had tried locating his father's study and found the tower instead. Out of curiosity, he had come to this room. When he realized his error, he fled before anyone was any wiser, and his father never knew of it. The second time, his father brought him here. At three years old, he sat against a wall and cried after being punished by his father for some slight offense, and then he was forced to watch as Morzan tortured a spy using a wooden rack. He could remember the victim's screams, but more than that he remembered the sound of bones cracking and muscles being torn. And all the while, his father had smiled.

Shivering, Murtagh shook his head and attempted to keep his thoughts from wandering, and it took a lot more effort than he liked. As thorough as he could, he searched the room for life and for magic, including every corner and shadow, and then he took one step forward.

Nothing happened. His heart was racing now because it was too easy.

Though he searched, Murtagh found no hidden spells or hidden bodies. Rather, he found nothing at all. It was as though beyond the platform was a void that devoured everything, and even his thoughts became muddled as he reached out his mind. Hastily he withdrew and hopped onto the platform, kneeling over Eragon.

"Eragon, wake up," he demanded, a cloud of foreboding settling over him.

He shook his sibling and then patted his face in an attempt to stir him. Eragon was listless, his brown eyes clouded and unfocused. He murmured a few words that were unrecognizable, his lips swollen, bloody, and useless. Rolling his head, he blinked and then was unconscious and silent again. Like he had had too much to drink… or had been drugged.

He checked Eragon's pulse to ensure his heart was beating proper, and then he pointed a commanding finger at the straps binding his wrists and ankles. " _Jierda_!" By his word, the straps holding Eragon tore. He looked his sibling over and determined he at least did not have any life threatening injuries, though it was difficult to tell under a layer of filth and his tattered clothes, and so he slipped an arm beneath Eragon's shoulders and lifted him.

Suddenly, the light from the ceiling vanished. Murtagh's head snapped upwards, and he scanned the darkness that enveloped them. The torch flickered, and shadows leapt on the wall.

Something scraped across the floor like the point of a sword being dragged on stone, and it was followed by a thump. At first it was indistinguishable, a mere echo. A thud was followed by something dragging, one beat after another, the lethargic footsteps of something not entirely human. Then several more followed until there was a symphony of thumps and thuds in the dark.

When Murtagh finally saw the first trace of them step into the firelight, his heart was racing.

Ra'zac hauled themselves out of the shadows, hissing and staggering as if injured or weak. Their bodies were unclothed and gnarled. Some were missing limbs while others were missing their entire beaked faces. Yet the creatures dragged across the floor and closed in around the platform. There were at least ten visible, though Murtagh gathered there were many more. He could not sense their presence, as if they simply did not exist.

Murtagh pulled Eragon against him when the door slammed shut and the outside bars slid back into place with a resounding clang. He opened his mouth to use magic, but an invisible hand grabbed at his throat and strangled his words and his breath. He grabbed his neck and felt nothing, but the sensation remained and he could not speak.

"It seems you have lost your voice," said a deep voice from the dark. Heavy footsteps echoed in the vast tower.

Murtagh's skin crawled, and he shivered from his head down to his toes. Cold sweat drenched his skin, and his heart was beating so fast that it hurt. He held Eragon a little tighter then, and finally he dared to turn his head.

Folds of darkness finally surrendered him to the faint light of the flames. One of his eyes was icy blue and the other jet black, and both were empty like those of a dead man. His clean-shaven face bore a smile, but it was miserable and cruel. Morzan appeared like a phantom, and his lips curled to flash teeth.

"You were careless not to trust your instincts," he said with much pleasure in his tone. "Of course it was a trap."

Murtagh opened his mouth and could not produce a sound. Not only so, but words of magic rattled incoherently in his mind, and he could not concentrate on anything. Breathing was enough of a challenge, and he was becoming lightheaded.

"My son, you are shaking," Morzan commented, and Murtagh immediately forced his muscles still. He had not noticed. His father seemed to take pleasure in this, and his head rose higher. "Are you surprised? It is only right that if Eragon receives his father from the grave that you should as well."

At least twenty Ra'zac huddled around them now, hissing and bumping into each other like mindless puppets.

Countless scenarios ran through Murtagh's mind as he attempted to think of a way out, yet he kept coming up blank. It was as though he would think of an excellent plan, and then the very last step would fade away. Briefly, his vision blurred. Then he started the process again of thinking of escape routes, only to lose concentration on an earlier step. Finally, he cast an accusing gaze at Morzan.

"You are quite adept at battles of the mind. Therefore, the moment you entered this room, your mind has been suppressed—put to sleep, if you will," explained his father without remorse. The man folded his hands behind his back, his posture relaxed. "Soon you will become like the Ra'zac, without a thought in your head."

Morzan approached the stone table, and Murtagh shifted away from him. He would rather be near the Ra'zac than his father. Again his eyes flitted from one side of the tower to the next in search of an escape route, and more Ra'zac shuffled around the room, appearing out of shadows.

"You have something I want, Murtagh," Morzan explained, and his eyes flashed with satisfaction that made Murtagh sick. "Surely you realize what slumbers in you. You will submit to me, and I will claim it."

With the spell that gripped him, Murtagh could not speak, but his face expressed volumes. He gave his father a look as if to say,  _Go ahead and try._  He was not three years old anymore, beaten and cowering in a corner.

Morzan tipped his head to one side, and he accepted Murtagh's challenge. Three orbs of dark light flashed around him, flitting through the air around his head. He caught one and crushed it in his hand until it disintegrated, leaving nothing behind. The other two lights pressed against him and disappeared.

It was with dread that Murtagh realized they were spirits.

"I was brought back to suppress you," explained Morzan with a laugh, both heinous and painful, and then he circled the platform again. Murtagh held his ground knowing full well his father was trying to intimidate him. Morzan continued, "But the spirits intending to control me—I broke them, one after another, and now they submit to me. Soon, all of Alagaësia will do the same."

Murtagh did not move even as Morzan stepped alongside him, though his grip on Eragon tightened. His hands were steady now despite the overwhelming exhaustion plaguing his body and mind. Unfortunately, his grip drew Morzan's attention to his sibling. Murtagh shifted himself between them, shielding Eragon with his body.

"Submit to me, my son," said Morzan melodically, and he grinned. "Submit, and I will let you keep your  _brother_ as a pet."

Murtagh went numb. Morzan knew the full extent of Selena's betrayal.

"Submit, and I will spare them," Morzan promised, and every word was a lie. Murtagh was sick as his father continued, "Eragon, Thorn, Nasuada, your mother… I will give them all to you."

Everything was spinning. It was getting harder to think straight. Yet at the mention of their names, the names of people he cared for, a strange sense of clarity came over Murtagh. Firmly he determined he would not surrender himself  _or Eragon_  to his father's cruel whims. He would never— _never_ —give this man what he wanted.

Morzan did not appear to be armed, but he was a powerful user of magic. Countless Ra'zac crowded around, making for a daunting challenge. Fighting was not an option anyhow, as Murtagh had an extra body to haul around. He extended his faltering mind to a Ra'zac and touched it, but it was like touching a blank wall. Then he dared turn his mind to Morzan, and immediately a jolt of pain stabbed through his head like a sword. He curled over, gritting his teeth.

"I would not do that if I were you," Morzan chided him, amused.

Murtagh's vision blurred, and a wave of nausea hit. Whatever was clouding his thoughts was doing so quickly and completely. He devised a hasty albeit reckless plan and put it to work at once, broadcasting his presence to any mind that thought to search for it. It frustrated him, but he left himself almost completely unguarded. Almost.

Morzan's mouth twitched. Darkness welled in his eyes and shadows fell across his sharp face. With a growl, he asked, "What are you doing?" A hostile shriek shook the tower and silenced him.

Murtagh sneered at his father seconds before the ceiling and walls exploded around them. The Lethrblaka crashed into the room over the stone platform, and at the same time, Murtagh rolled to the floor and shielded Eragon from falling debris. Two massive black paws and gnarled claws gripped the stone just above his head. The Lethrblaka roared and flapped its wings, and the entire tower began to collapse.

A cloud of dust filled the room.

Taking advantage of the situation, Murtagh hoisted Eragon over his shoulder and sprinted towards the door. Ra'zac were scrambling, and many had been crushed by falling stones. The Lethrblaka remained wholly focused on Murtagh, and when it caught sight of him, it jumped off the platform and crushed several Ra'zac beneath it. Its neck extended, its gaping beak reaching for Murtagh, but the floor groaned and gave way.

Murtagh jumped but could not reach the door before the floor dropped beneath him. Holding fast to Eragon, he slid down a chunk of stone into the stairwell along with a dozen wailing Ra'zac and a very angry Lethrblaka. Without thinking and without using words, he cast a spell of protection, and when the leathery wing of the Lethrblaka clipped them, he and Eragon flew into a corridor without receiving so much as a scratch.

The tower collapsed, and the screams of the Lethrblaka and Ra'zac echoed through the empty halls of the castle.

Murtagh lifted Eragon and ran down the corridor, trying to make sense of where he was, but with the floors and walls completely bare, everything looked the same. As he reached a window and began to assess his location, invisible chains wrapped around his legs, and he hit the ground.

Morzan appeared from out of the falling debris without a scratch on him. "I am not finished with you," he said, and he held a single hand forward to still Murtagh's body. Then, with force and precision, he attacked Murtagh's mind.

It was brief. The castle shuddered beneath them. Morzan turned with a growl, and then the Lethrblaka broke through the ceiling over his head. Both its paws were extended, claws open wide. Murtagh fell over Eragon and only thought another word of magic, and then the floor dropped beneath them by his command. One of the Lethrblaka's claws hooked his back and tore his clothes and skin, but Murtagh twisted just enough to avoid being caught.

Morzan was gone, and the Lethrblaka crashed into another wall, falling through the floor with hysterical roars. Murtagh grabbed Eragon, scrambled down a short corridor until he found a window, and then he kicked out the glass and jumped.

Again without words, he used magic. Air twisted beneath his feet and pushed back against him so he could jump across it, sprinting towards the shelter of the forest. He had no direction in mind, only somewhere to hide. Shrill screams of Lethrblaka and Ra'zac hurried his pace.

Finally he reached the trees. Murtagh tried to bring them down gently but could not muster the strength. Instead, they crashed down a hill, first into crisp leaves that slowed them and finally into a muddy ravine. Gritting his teeth from the pain, Murtagh rolled onto his back, half expecting the Lethrblaka's shadow to cross over them.

Fiercely determined, he used magic once again only with his mind, casting over him and Eragon a spell that would make them invisible. He shielded them with such powerful wards that even Galbatorix himself never would have been able to locate them. In doing so, he expended what little energy he had left in him, and his body refused to move. Nevertheless, he stared at the sky, counted the branches overhead, and did everything in his power to stay conscious.

When night fell, he moved on to counting stars.


	12. Battles of the Mind

Twice in the late evening, the Lethrblaka flew over their heads bewailing the loss of its prey, and each time it passed, Murtagh held his breath. A while after the second pass over, he forced himself to move.

Every inch of him hurt, and searing pain in his back reminded him of his close encounter with the Lethrblaka. He twisted onto his stomach and pushed himself to his hands and knees. Faint moonlight illuminated the snow on the ground and made it easy to find Eragon just further down in the ravine. Murtagh scooted closer to him and grabbed at his clothes, dragging his sibling out of the mud. It was all he could do before collapsing again.

As the night progressed, the air grew frigid. Murtagh struggled to move his lips, and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, yet he still managed to utter a word. His voice had returned to him. With ease, he spoke a spell of warming over them to shield them from the cold. Dark spots swam across his vision. Then he rested again.

The third time the Lethrblaka flew by, Eragon screamed.

Murtagh jumped in surprise and threw himself over his brother, covering his mouth in an attempt to drown out his cries. Eragon thrashed against him and continued yelling between his fingers. His brown eyes were open but not alert, and he searched in every direction without ever focusing on one thing, least of all Murtagh. When Murtagh tried to pin him down, Eragon rolled beneath him and crawled backwards, shouting all the while.

"Stop, Eragon," Murtagh snapped, and he tackled his younger brother back into the mud of the ravine. "Be quiet!"

Closer than before, the Lethrblaka shrieked.

Wrestling with Eragon was pointless, and his younger sibling could not see or hear him. Murtagh tried to pin him again and cover his mouth, and then in desperation he tried to reach into his mind to speak with him, calling his name.

With the strength of a hundred Eldunarí, something dragged Murtagh deeper into Eragon's consciousness with no way of retreat. Murtagh was suddenly filled with such fear and pain that he almost screamed as well. They were Eragon's feelings and not his own. Something very powerful was holding him in place, drawing him deeper and preventing him from withdrawing.

Murtagh was not certain how, but he was then standing on the Burning Plains. Fire burst out of the ground all around him, and smoke stung his eyes and lungs. Broken bodies were strewn everywhere. Most he did not personally recognize, but deep in his heart he knew they were allies of Eragon: villagers from Carvahall, allies from the Varden, an uncle and cousin. The elf Arya was at his feet. Beyond her lay the body of Saphira, mangled and ruined, and Eragon wailed at her head.

It was an illusion, something in Eragon's mind, but it felt real enough. Swirling black clouds twisted in the sky, and on more than one occasion did Murtagh see the hollow white eyes of a creature staring down at him. A knobby hand with long claws reached out of heavens. They were not really clouds at all.

Murtagh ran to Eragon's side and pulled him off Saphira, and his brother turned abruptly and punched him in the face.

"You did this!" Eragon screamed in agony, and tears spilled from his eyes. "This is your fault!"

"This is an illusion, Eragon," Murtagh informed him while holding his sore jaw. Illusion it may have been, but it hurt. "None of this is real."

"Why should I believe you?" Eragon stumbled backwards, and then he swung at Murtagh again. This time he missed, and Murtagh tried to catch him. "Let me go! I will never forgive you for this!"

Eragon screamed again, and Murtagh felt the pain as if it was his own, and it nearly crippled him. The loss of family and friends, the loss of a dragon, it was as though someone had reached into his chest and ripped out his heart, leaving a gaping hole behind. When Eragon elbowed him and spun to punch him again, he let him.

Murtagh stumbled and fell backwards. Overhead, the swirling darkness stretched towards them with a monstrous hand. The creature's white eyes flashed like lightning, always watching. Limp bodies suddenly rose from the dirt, drifting towards the whirling black in the sky. The ground itself ripped apart, and chunks of the earth rose on invisible strings. A river of fire ran beneath them.

Eragon failed to notice the world falling apart around them. He grabbed the front of Murtagh's shirt and attempted to pin him down, punching him again in his rage. Every bit of pain, sorrow, and rage he shared with his brother. Murtagh had tears in his eyes, too.

"This is an illusion!" Murtagh told him again, and he grabbed the front of Eragon's shirt and shook him.

When his younger sibling insisted on punching him again, he wrestled him to the ground. They rolled over each other until they nearly toppled off the earth and into the flames beneath, at which point Murtagh yanked Eragon to his feet and pulled him back. Now the churning black lake of darkness in the sky closed in around them like a blanket.

"You killed them!" cried Eragon, and he tried to land another blow. "I watched you kill them!"

A monster slipped out of the sky. It was the same sort of creature that had destroyed Narda, only this one covered the entire plain. It opened its mouth, and between its jagged black fangs was a void that went on forever. It was pulling them in, and the creature shivered.

Eragon continued to struggle, but Murtagh was done fighting with him and was done playing games with the dark spirit. This was  _his_  illusion, now—he was taking over. When his sibling attempted to punch him, Murtagh ducked and let his fist fly over his shoulder, and then he lunged into Eragon's gut. Catching his brother on his shoulder, he popped instantly back onto his feet. Eragon screamed and fought, but Murtagh only had to hold him for a little while.

The spirit's body quivered and grew spikes from its head down to its snake-like tail.

Murtagh leered at it, and then he spun on his heels and walked away. Come what may, he was going back into his own head.

Solid ground gave way to flames, and Murtagh walked straight into them. It hurt, but not like fire. Rather, it was an all-consuming rage that ate away at his humanity until only insanity remained. The void within the dark spirit pulled more fiercely now, and Eragon yelled and beat him, but Murtagh kept moving forward. It took a great deal of concentration for him to put one foot forward and then another.

Then, whatever held him released him.

Murtagh snapped back into himself, and he brought Eragon with him. No longer were they in the confused world in Eragon's head, they were in the quiet and controlled space in Murtagh's. They both appeared physical and real with bodies that could move and interact, though now all that existed around them was empty space like a starless night sky. Eragon swung at him again, but there was no strength left in him. Murtagh caught his fist and looked him straight in the eye.

"It was an illusion, Eragon," he said. "None of it was real."

Cautiously, he opened his mind to Eragon and offered him thoughts and memories of things that  _were_  real. He withheld a great deal of information from him so as not to overwhelm him, and he kept his personal thoughts and memories to himself, but he showed Eragon as best he could that everyone was safe.

Even then, Eragon did not believe him. His sibling dug into his mind rather forcefully, fishing for information to prove Murtagh was lying. It irritated him, but Murtagh let him. Finally, Eragon dropped to his knees, eyes wide with realization.

"Saphira," he choked, and then he covered his face. "I can't hear her." Murtagh said nothing and allowed his brother to weep. Finally, Eragon sat and hung his head, his eyes red from crying. Faint, he said, "I'm so tired…"

With a sigh, Murtagh stepped around Eragon and sat behind him so that their backs touched. "Rest now," he said. "When you recover, I expect you to help me rescue the dragons."

Silence answered him. Eragon drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. Murtagh stayed with him as such for much of the night.

Finally, Murtagh settled back into the physical world, but he kept a constant mental hold on Eragon at the same time and did not let him back into his own head where the spirit still raged. Chuckling, he wondered if he was the first person to ever hold someone hostage not in  _their_  head but in his.

Dawn was breaking, and Murtagh was not sure how much time had passed. Eragon was no longer having a fit and was finally sleeping soundly. He and Eragon were still in the ravine and caked in mud. Tiredly, he hauled his brother into a dry pile of leaves. His spell for warmth was likely the only thing keeping them alive at that point, as they were both soaked and the air and ground were cold. Murtagh settled on the ground beside Eragon, laying his cloak, torn though it was, over the both of them.

It was the best he could do for them. Finally allowing his mind to rest, Murtagh closed his eyes and fell asleep.


	13. Eragon

Agonizing sorrow gripped him as Eragon woke up, and sorrow was followed by waves of resentment, guilt, shame, and self-loathing. All he wanted to do was disappear and hope the feelings would go away. Several times he tried to fall back asleep so that he might wake up in a different mood, but the feelings were so painful and irritating that he could not ignore them long enough to rest his mind.

Bright sunlight shone down through bare tree branches, and web-like shadows wavered above a layer of snow. None of it was familiar. Eragon tried to sit up, but his muscles were stiff and sore. Even with the slightest motion, he was breathless and weary. Resting on his back, he turned his head the other direction—and found a face near his own. Eragon popped upright in a flash, and all of his initial exhaustion was gone.

Murtagh was asleep beside him, or at least he thought it was Murtagh, as it was difficult to tell with all of the mud. They had been sharing a cloak like a blanket.

Eragon frowned and tried to remember what had happened and how he wound up here. His last vivid memory was of an attack at the dragon's keep and Saphira falling to an enemy they could not touch. At the very thought, his eyes shot in every direction. His mind reached for her and found nothing at all. Emptiness overwhelmed him, heaping sorrow upon sorrow.

Then something tugged at his mind, and though he tried, he could do little to resist it. He was swallowed up in a nightmare that was not his own. A man with two different colored eyes raised a hand to strike him. Eragon jumped in confusion, and at the same moment Murtagh flinched. It was  _his_  nightmare!

"Wake up!" Eragon snapped, whacking Murtagh on the shoulder.

Murtagh not only awoke but scrambled to his feet, reaching first for a sword that was not there and then his bow. He had nearly drawn it before pausing to look around. A connection between their minds severed. His initial feelings upon waking were not his but were Murtagh's.

"Where is Saphira?" Eragon asked. Ignoring his sore muscles, he rose. "Where are we?" His tone was more accusing than he intended, but something told him Murtagh did know the answers.

Murtagh scanned their surroundings as if he expected someone to jump out at them, and then he sighed and gave his attention to Eragon. He answered with a question of his own. "Are you all right?"

Frustrated, Eragon tried again. "Where is Saphira?"

Suddenly, the air temperature plummeted, and Eragon shuddered from the cold. His sleeves were short and his clothing had been ripped nearly to shreds. Every inch of him was covered in mud, and he was sopping wet from head to toe. A breeze washed over him and chilled him to the bone, and he wrapped his arms around himself.

"You don't remember?" Murtagh wobbled, and his eyelids were heavy. His lips moved, and the air was warm again.

"Remember what?"

Once more, Eragon looked around and tried to understand why he was here, why Murtagh was here, and why Saphira was not. A few images came to mind of the Burning Plains and Saphira on the ground, a strange creature with eyes like lightning, and Murtagh taking him away. Even though it made his chest ache, he was confident it had been a dream, and Murtagh had assured him of as much, but part of him was not certain.

"What do you know?" Eragon questioned, again with more accusation than he intended. He needed answers, and he needed Saphira. "What happened?"

Murtagh sighed and then explained to him a few things that had occurred. He told him of spirits that were attacking the land and distorting magic. Narda had vanished in a blink, Ra'zac and Lethrblaka had been reborn, and people withered away into nothingness. They were in the Spine where Murtagh had found him, and though it was summer, snow covered the ground. Murtagh acknowledged he did not know where Eragon had been before and only that he had been trying to scry him after Angela told him to.

"And Saphira?" Eragon asked, and now his voice trembled. Tears stung his eyes.

"I believe," began Murtagh carefully, "that she is trapped on the mountain where you lived." He reached for Eragon's hand, lifting it to reveal his palm. "Your connection with her is no longer."

Sure enough, Eragon's gedwëy ignasia was gone. He tore his hand from Murtagh's hold and stared at the flesh, wiping away mud as if to find something hidden underneath, but still nothing was there. He shook his head frantically and shivered not from cold but from fear and loneliness, and it was overwhelming. Murtagh reached for him to calm him, but he stepped away.

"No," Eragon said. "You are lying." Yet even as he said the words, he knew they were true. A tear slid down his cheek. "Saphira is—"

"Alive," Murtagh assured him with confidence. "It is by magic that you are no longer connected. If we can break the spell, you should regain your powers." Even as he made his last statement, his face was uncertain.

"Powers," echoed Eragon, and then he spun around. " _Brisingr_!" Nothing happened. He tried a few other spells to no effect. Patting his side, he searched for a sword that was no longer there, only an empty sheath. His hands reached his ears and they were round. He could not breathe.

"Eragon!" Murtagh grabbed his shoulders and shook him, and their eyes met. Fiery resolve burned in his eyes. "I know you are confused, but everything you have lost  _can_  be returned to you."

Eragon nodded and then sat down. Murtagh shifted his weight between feet, and then he unraveled his cloak and offered it to him. Eragon blinked at it before receiving it, setting it across his lap. Murtagh said nothing else and left him, disappearing up a hill, and Eragon did not even bother watching him leave. His head was quiet and empty. He was sickeningly alone. Tiredly, he folded a flap of his tunic back into place, but the fabric would not mend itself.

Snow shone like tiny crystals all around him, and only by magic was the air warm. Then the temperature plummeted again, and Eragon folded his arms around himself in an attempt to stay warm. He wrapped the cloak around him and burrowed beneath it.

Murtagh returned a short while later with a single rabbit. He tossed it to Eragon. "Make that," he said, curtly. With the aid of magic, he started a small fire for them, and then he sat in the mud without concern. He was filthy, too.

Eragon grumbled but did as he was told. Moving and working close to the fire helped him to stay warm. After cleaning the rabbit and cooking it over the fire, he shared some with Murtagh. They ate in silence. Eragon devoured his portion, and his stomach chose then to become a bottomless pit and rumbled loud enough for his present company to hear. Murtagh offered him the rest of his meal after only a few bites. Eragon accepted it and ate, though with some uncertainty.

"Are you all right?" he finally asked.

Murtagh was sluggish, and his spell for warmth had failed twice now, and he had not put it back into place. "Fine," answered Murtagh, leaning back.

"You don't look fine," he replied.

"Neither do you."

Silence took them again, and Eragon finished eating. Murtagh waited only that long, and then he rose and buried the fire. Once again, his lips moved and a spell for warmth covered them. Eragon was in the process of standing when Murtagh turned his back to him. Eragon froze and caught his arm.

"You're bleeding!"

"Probably," said Murtagh without concern, and he took back his arm. Turning, he started up the hill. "I left a horse further in the forest. I think I can get us to him if he is still around. Carvahall is a ways from here."

"Carvahall?" Eragon echoed. Murtagh had no attachment to the town, and it was an odd destination choice.

Murtagh sighed in frustration and gave Eragon a pointed look. "Just… trust me."

It was a hefty request given their history. Eragon stared hard at him until Murtagh simply walked away. Finally, he followed.

"Heal your back," Eragon ordered, trying to keep up. Though Murtagh was injured and weary, he certainly set a quick pace.

"I will when we reach the horse."

"Why not now?"

"Because," growled Murtagh, and he turned on him. "If I do it now, I will probably collapse. I would rather collapse on the horse." Then, he kept walking.

Eragon did not bother mentioning it again.

As Murtagh said, by nightfall he was able to lead them to a horse, along with various provisions that had been concealed by magic. Murtagh thanked the horse for staying, prepped their supplies, and climbed in the saddle. He gave Eragon a sharp look, sighed heavily, and then shrugged.

"Well, goodbye I guess," Murtagh said, and then he turned the horse and set off at a gallop.

"Wh—" Eragon watched him go in absolute bewilderment. Should he pursue him? Was there any point?

And then the horse came back, and Murtagh was smirking. "What? Did you want to come?" he asked, and he offered his hand.

Eragon scowled but accepted, and he was pulled up behind Murtagh. "Not amusing," he grumbled.

Murtagh smiled but said nothing.

\-----

Several days passed before they arrived in Therinsford, and nearly a foot of snow coated the ground in Palancar Valley. Eragon could not believe that it was summer, and only when he saw the dead crops in the fields of Therinsford did he accept it as truth. Cold had struck suddenly and ruined many people's livelihoods, and he recalled his life with Garrow and how difficult that was. More than anything he wanted to help the people who would now have to struggle to survive.

Murtagh left the horse, which Eragon learned was named Sandstorm, at a stable for warmth, paying the owner to shelter him. Afterwards, Murtagh asked around for a woman named Lauri and eventually led the way to a house on the edge of town, and an old lady bent in the back by age answered the door.

"Ma'am," Murtagh started, and his tone changed considerably when speaking with her—he sounded courteous, almost gentle. "Do you have a room you might be able to spare for us? I can pay, of course."

"Oh," gasped the woman with a start, and she shook her wood cane at him. "Whatever happened to you?" She stepped outside and closed the door behind her. "Look at you boys, filthy as pigs! I will have you thrown in a bath before coming in my house, I will." Without a care in the world, she hobbled through the snow.

"Um," started Murtagh, and he scratched the back of his head. "Ma'am? Miss Lauri?" She ignored him, and finally he followed. Eragon did not know what to make of the exchange.

The old woman named Lauri brought them to a curtained area behind a bake shop where several tubs sat empty. She plotted how to provide hot water for them, but Murtagh hastily insisted it was not necessary. Without questioning, the woman accepted his answer and went away to gather clean clothes for them, and when she returned she had enormous linen shirts and trousers that had belonged to her late husband. Along with them she provided towels, blankets, and worn boots.

"Please come see me when you finish," she said with a wrinkled smile. At that, she hobbled away while humming a song.

"You know her?" Eragon wondered.

"I know of her from the last time we came through." Murtagh used magic to draw water into two of the tubs, and he warmed the water until it was steaming. Despite the cold, it was incredibly inviting.

"We?"

Murtagh stopped as though he had said something in error. Rubbing the back of his neck, he shrugged and then started peeling off layers of mud-caked clothing. By his actions he told Eragon he was not going to explain further. Irritation threatened to boil to the surface, and Eragon thought to demand a better answer until Murtagh pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a wide gash across his back framed by dark purple bruises. It crossed the long, jagged scar left by Morzan.

"You didn't heal it," Eragon said.

At first he was annoyed, thinking Murtagh was leaving it on purpose for some trivial reason, and then he was confused. If magic was failing, could he  _not_  heal it? And if that was the case, why did he not tend to it better in the first place? It was a severe injury and should not be left to mend on its own.

"I did the best I could," Murtagh answered without paying him any mind. He climbed into one of the tubs and sank into the water, wincing. "After I get some rest, I'll try again."

Eragon sighed but did not argue.

After they bathed and dressed in borrowed clothes, they returned to Lauri's house to spend the night. She provided a warm meal for them, including fresh baked bread from the bake shop, and sent them to a spare room at the back of the house. Lauri's home had a small stove that she slept near, but the separate room was quite cold. Murtagh warmed the space with magic, told Eragon to go to sleep, and turned to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"Nowhere."

"Murtagh!" Eragon scowled.

Since the moment he woke up, Murtagh had been dodgy and secretive, and after everything that supposedly happened, it was maddening. Eragon wanted to know what was going on, and his confusion only made him more frustrated. Even so, he tried to reason with himself that Murtagh was not a close ally that he thought should be required to share secrets with him, yet he seemed to keep  _everything_  secret, even trivial things.

"Fine!" Eragon finally declared, throwing his hands up in the air. Flopping down on the bed, he yanked the thick wool blanket into his lap before curling up into it, falling over. "Do whatever you want. I don't care."

Murtagh left and closed the door behind him.

Eragon buried himself under the blanket, clasping the fabric tightly with both hands. He was shaking, and tears burned his eyes. It was not Murtagh that bothered him, not really. All of their circumstances as a whole concerned him, as did his lack of knowledge about it. Images still plagued his mind and haunted his dreams of his closest allies dead on the ground. Worse than anything else, though, was the emptiness that Saphira's absence created. She was a part of him, and it was as though he ceased to live when she was not there. He clung to the hope that she was alive and was determined to rescue her, but for now he was terribly lost.

On top of everything else, he was exhausted, and he hoped a decent night's sleep in bed would shake him out of his stupor lest Murtagh truly gallop away on Sandstorm and leave him behind. Exhaling slowly, he rolled over and went to sleep.

\-----

Eragon slept hard and woke up rejuvenated. No longer did despair linger in the back of his mind, but instead he was ready to face head-on whatever dared to separate him from Saphira. He rolled out of bed and nearly lost his extra large trousers in the process.

A pile of clothing waited for him on the bedside table. Someone had provided thick wool clothing and a heavy cloak for warmth, and he hastily exchanged his borrowed linen garments for them. A pair of boots lined in fur sat near the door, and he claimed them as his own.

Lauri was sleeping in a chair near her stove, and Eragon let her be. Outside, several more inches of snow sat atop the foot already on the ground. It was disheartening, and he kicked at it. Despite the weather and unfortunate circumstances, the small town was bustling with activity. In fact, everyone seemed a little happier than before. He wandered and listened to their conversations but never really heard what they were saying. Near the stable where Sandstorm was housed, he found Murtagh among a group of men, and one of the men had a bundle of fowl over his shoulder.

As he approached, the men parted ways, and Murtagh faced him. He was dressed in similar clothing, warm and comfortable. There was no need for warming magic now, and the bright sunlight helped.

"How is your back?" Eragon asked.

"Fully recovered," Murtagh reported. He crossed his arms and shifted his weight, and his eyes softened. "How are you feeling?"

"Well, actually." Eragon rubbed the back of his head, and his cheeks burned as he said, "I'm sorry for how I've been behaving. I was tired, and—"

"Tired!" Murtagh laughed, and Eragon raised his shoulders. "You slept for two days, Eragon! Tired is an understatement."

"Two days!" At this, Eragon touched his forehead. Certainly he had been tired, but how in the present circumstances had he managed to sleep so long? At least now he was well.

"We should have something to eat," Murtagh offered, and he led the way to Lauri's house. "We still have a lot of daylight, so we should leave as soon as we can."

Eragon agreed completely. He did not want to dawdle anymore. Saphira was waiting, and nothing would stand in his way of reaching and freeing her. Not Ra'zac, not Lethrblaka, and certainly not deranged spirits. Even without his strength as a Rider, he  _would_  rescue her.

After one last meal with Lauri, she sent them on their way with another loaf of freshly baked bread. Murtagh left a significant amount of crowns on the table without her noticing, though Eragon wondered how he was so wealthy. As they were leaving, the old woman gripped Murtagh's arm and stopped him in the doorway.

"Thank you, young man," she told him, brimming with happiness. "It would be a terrible season if not for you. With the traps you built and the skills you taught the men, we should have no trouble faring without our crops."

Murtagh nodded and left without another word. Lauri said farewell to Eragon as well, and he followed several steps behind his companion. Eragon decided not to say anything about it, but he smiled. So  _that_  is what he had been up to. Fetching Sandstorm, they walked the horse out of town. Sure enough, many of the people expressed gratitude to Murtagh for his help, but he kept walking.

Just outside the town, Murtagh paused. "I have a favor to ask of you," he started after some hesitation. It was clearly not a subject he wanted to breach. Eragon nodded and allowed him to continue. "Swear to me that if someone does not know who I am, who my father is, or even who you are to me—swear to me you will not tell them. Swear to me you will not give up my secrets."

It was a strange request to Eragon. He had no interest in telling people who Murtagh was or what he had done in the past. If someone knew, they had already made their judgments about him. If they did not know, then it was only right that they form their own opinions about Murtagh as he was now. Nothing else mattered.

"I wouldn't," he told him, and he meant it.

"Promise me," pressed Murtagh, and something seemed to break inside of him. His entire body sank. "Please."

Eragon did not understand, but he nodded and made his promise in the ancient language, true and binding.

"Thank you." Murtagh gave a slight nod, but he only sank further. Even though he received what he wanted, he was not pleased. Mounting Sandstorm, he pulled Eragon up after him. "Let's go."

Eragon did not understand but did not ask any questions.


	14. A Family Reunited

 

Carvahall was framed on one side of the horizon by shining rays of waning orange sunlight, and was framed on the other side by a blanket of rich purple flecked with stars. Eragon guided Sandstorm through the snow at a slow and steady pace, and Murtagh had taken to walking when the snow became too deep and became a burden to the horse.

As they had their entire journey, they exchanged only pleasantries. Eragon casually told Murtagh of things he had done in the east, such as building the keep and exploring the land, and in return Murtagh told him a few things about his time in the north. Their poor attempts at dialogue were a constant reminder that they were barely anything more than enemies now and certainly not friends, and Eragon was uncertain how to feel about it.

On one hand, Murtagh had saved him on several occasions, and Arya too, on his initial trip to the Varden. They did not always see eye to eye, but he had trusted him. They were brothers first through difficult circumstances and second by blood. Yet the initial sting of Murtagh's supposed betrayal was still fresh in his mind. Perhaps it had not been his choice, but Eragon had seen in him the same lust for power and wild fury that also existed in Galbatorix, and that troubled him.

Eragon did not hate Murtagh, but he did not love him, either.

"There is one thing I should tell you," began Murtagh with some hesitation, and he stared at the snow and dragged his feet. "I told you about Angela's report and what I saw in Aroughs and Narda… how the living ceased to be."

"Yes," he answered, and his brow furrowed.

"I failed to tell you," continued Murtagh with some struggle. Eragon became frustrated and pulled the horse in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. Their eyes met. "More than just Ra'zac and Lethrblaka have been raised from the dead."

Sandstorm snorted, and Eragon pulled at the reins absentmindedly. It took a while for the words to settle. Murtagh's hesitation made Eragon think the worst, that some great evil had been brought back from the grave as if their current circumstances were not difficult enough. The face of one particular mad king came to mind, and he clenched his jaw.

"Not Galbatorix," Murtagh assured him, and he touched Sandstorm's nose and stilled the restless horse. A warm smile spread on his lips, and he was genuinely happy with what he spoke next. "Brom is alive."

A wave of emotions washed over Eragon, and he shivered. His heart leapt into his throat with excitement and then sank to the pit of his stomach as he realized it may not be true. It was a cruel joke to play, and he doubted Murtagh would stoop so low. It was too good a claim and too much to hope for after everything he had already lost. His voice trembled from anger, excitement, and hope all at the same time. "Are you telling the truth?"

"I would not lie to you," Murtagh said without offense.

Eragon believed him, and his eyes stung with tears. Twice he opened his mouth to speak, and his voice died on his lips. Hastily, he spun the horse in a half circle and directed them towards Carvahall, ready to run. Sandstorm pranced in the snow.

"And Eragon!" Murtagh called out. Now he was definitely glad, and it was a strange look on him. "Our mother, too. They are waiting for you in Carvahall. Now go."

Eragon had no doubt, and joy bubbled up in him until he nearly shouted and shed tears. He yanked the reins to turn Sandstorm but then paused. A shadow loomed in the sky, small and distant, but something told him it was rather quite large. Murtagh followed his gaze.

A black silhouette devoured the stars, and a rhythmic thumping echoed through the valley from the beat of enormous leathery wings. It came close quickly. Without fear of losing the element of surprise, it unleashed a scream that rolled snow off surrounding mountains. It was a sound Eragon would never forget, the horrible cry of a Lethrblaka.

In an instant, Murtagh shifted from joyful messenger to hardened warrior. With a wave of his hand, he demanded, "Go and warn the villagers." His tone left little room for negotiation. He turned his back and faced the shadows of the valley and the monster approaching rapidly from the sky.

"That is…" Eragon started, and he could not bring himself to say it.

Murtagh had mentioned it in passing that the Ra'zac and Lethrblaka had been reborn, but Eragon did not accept it at the time. Now he had no choice, and there was no doubt this was the largest Lethrblaka he had ever seen. Again the Lethrblaka screeched, and Sandstorm snorted and spun in a circle. Eragon pulled at the reins in an effort to steady it.

"Go!" Murtagh shouted at him, trying to calm the horse in the process. Eragon had no weapon and no exceptional strength with which to fight, but he still did not want to abandon Murtagh. If they went on the horse together—and then Murtagh shouted, " _Gánga_!"

Eragon let out a sharp breath as magic moved the horse. Sandstorm reared with an anxious whinny and then took off in a gallop towards the village. It took everything in Eragon to hold the reins and keep from being flung to the ground with the sudden jolt. Despite the snow that slowed them, Carvahall grew quickly. Faint in the distance, people scurried around the village and prepared for attack. If Roran was there, they would be ready. Behind, the Lethrblaka shrieked again and swooped at Murtagh.

"No!" Eragon yelled, furious.

He yanked on the reins to stop Sandstorm but could only slow him. The magic was cast on the horse and not him, and so he used the momentary pause to dismount. Sandstorm took off at a rapid gallop before he even hit the ground. By then, people were rushing in their direction from Carvahall, and the Lethrblaka had settled in the snow and was shrieking, flapping its wings, and pecking at the ground.

Eragon stood in the middle.

It was suicide to run back to the Lethrblaka. As he was, he would never be able to put up a fight or even slow the creature, but he still could not accept leaving Murtagh behind. Despite his reservations, Eragon ran back and stopped only when the Lethrblaka screamed again, and the sound knocked the wind out of him. He toppled over into the snow with a throbbing head and ringing ears.

Murtagh had no sword and had not drawn his bow. He stood against the creature with only a hand raised. When the Lethrblaka snapped its beak at him, he jumped back and assailed the creature with a wall of flames that devoured the snow beneath them. The Lethrblaka pecked again, and this time, Murtagh lunged at it and grappled its face, catching one of the wiry tendrils that protruded from its leather skin. By the sheer strength of his arms, he swung up and attached himself behind the creature's tendrils. From there, he drew a dagger from his belt and jabbed it into the Lethrblaka's eye.

The Lethrblaka roared and smashed its head against the ground with Murtagh beneath it. It struck one side of its head and then the other, and then it jumped and dug its claws into the earth, spraying snow and mud everywhere.

Eragon lost sight of Murtagh and feared the worst, and his concern only multiplied as a small army of people approached from Carvahall. Torches bounced in the encroaching darkness. Several smaller lights erupted, and then a rain of flaming arrows fired upon the Lethrblaka. The creature hissed and twisted its head, but the arrows bounced off in a shower of sparks before their flames were extinguished by the snow on the ground.

Murtagh was a nuisance, but Carvahall was a feast. The Lethrblaka turned its body and spread its wings, prepared to go after the approaching group. A few of the villagers realized the error in their decision to fight and turned to flee, but several others drew swords and hammers, and a few more arrows soared through the air. A chorus of shouts arose as the villagers ran to attack, and Eragon had no doubt Roran was among them.

Against a Ra'zac they stood a chance but not against a Lethrblaka. The monster roared as it jumped and soared over them, spreading its claws to snatch up its prey. Now everyone recognized the imminent danger, though the few villagers that remained did not flee. Even so, as the Lethrblaka swooped low, its head suddenly jerked so hard to the left that it should have snapped its neck. The Lethrblaka careened out of the sky and crashed into a heap in the snow. It rose abruptly and barked with hostility, and then it whipped its head back towards Eragon. Rather, towards Murtagh.

Murtagh was battered but standing, and he kept a finger pointed at the Lethrblaka. Breathlessly, he shouted at Eragon and the villagers, "Get out of here!" With a hiss, the Lethrblaka turned from Murtagh to the villagers and then to Eragon, and it stared at him hard with a single eye. Green blood dripped into the snow like teardrops. Murtagh shouted, "Eragon, go!"

Too late, for the Lethrblaka had settled its unwavering sights on him now. The monster slithered across the ground, unperturbed by flying arrows and the villagers—for whatever reason, it wanted Eragon. He contemplated running but doubted it would do any good, and if he ran towards the villagers, he put them in danger. His mind grappled at magic, but he knew there was no hope of using it. Without magic or a weapon, he was harmless.

Yet when the Lethrblaka opened its beak and lunged, its head twisted backwards, and its body flipped over until one of its wings crumpled beneath it. Panting for air and drenched in sweat but standing nonetheless was Murtagh, a hand extended. He sliced his finger one way, and the Lethrblaka moved the same direction, always head first, and then Murtagh moved it another way, flinging the dark creature around. Whatever he was doing took its toll, and he nearly lost his balance.

It was only a temporary diversion. The Lethrblaka rose again and snarled, angrier than ever, and dashed towards Eragon and the villagers. Flaming arrows whizzed through the sky and did absolutely nothing. People were shouting, and the Lethrblaka snorted and then screamed such a sound that everyone staggered. Everyone except Murtagh. He extended his hand, and his expression was one of great focus, eyes sharp. The Lethrblaka stopped and shuddered.

It was now a battle of the minds. The Lethrblaka turned slowly and stomped its feet, marching towards Murtagh with beak gaping. It seemed Murtagh was losing the battle as the creature closed in on him. Then the Lethrblaka jumped over him, and Murtagh moved his hand. One last time the Lethrblaka's head snapped to the side, and it rolled over Murtagh as it crumbled, yet it thrashed on the ground and roared in agony.

Villagers scrambled past and attacked the Lethrblaka, and still more arrows flew by. Eragon stared as the Lethrblaka lay impotent on the ground as swords hacked at its wings and hammers pounded against its tough flesh. It took such a beating that Eragon thought they  _would_  be able to kill it, and then finally, the beast let out a wail that caused everyone to drop their weapons and hit the ground. Then the Lethrblaka, with great difficulty and much snarling, took flight, and it disappeared into the darkness.

A whirlwind of activity followed. Eragon ran to where he had last seen Murtagh, and several villagers followed. It was difficult to tell if Murtagh was more injured in mind or body, but he lay on the ground unconscious and gasping for air. They took him back to Carvahall, and he was ushered into a large home along with a handful of people. In the chaos, Eragon was pushed aside, and all the while, he stared blankly at the door and wondered if Murtagh was alive.

"Eragon?"

Eragon turned at the familiar voice. Roran stood near with his hammer in hand. His cousin looked a bit rough around the edges, and blue-green blood was splattered on the head of his hammer and on his dark trousers. His beard was thicker than Eragon remembered. They stared at each other in silence, and then Eragon took a slight step forward. Roran closed the rest of the distance between them without hesitation, dropping his hammer in the process, and engulfed him in a powerful embrace.

Eragon reciprocated and shed tears. It had only been a year, but it had been a long year, and the past several days had felt longer still. All of his confusion and hopelessness suddenly no longer seemed out of control. He had a sense of stability again, and he was not alone.

"Is it really you?" Roran asked, and he held Eragon out at arm's length. He touched Eragon's face, his hair and arms, searching him in disbelief. "Are you well?"

"I am now," he answered, honestly. Their eyes remained locked, conveying countless emotions to each other that words would never have been able to express, and then Roran clapped him on the shoulder and gave a squeeze.

"Come to the house," he invited. "We should eat and celebrate, and I know Katrina would love to see you."

Eragon dried his tears on the back of his hand, and then he nodded and allowed Roran to guide him.

Carvahall was completely different from what he remembered. After its destruction at the hands of the Empire and Ra'zac, it had been rebuilt bigger—and better—than before. The homes and shops were made of fine and solid wood with stone fixed across one side that was connected to a hearth. Smoke billowed from nearly all of the houses, and warm firelight glowed through clean glass windowpanes. All of the structures were larger and a little more elaborate than they would ever have been in the past, and the farmland had grown significantly. Eragon smiled.

Roran led him to a large house near the center of town and invited him inside. A warm fire flickered in the hearth and filled the home with the fragrance of smoke. It was not unpleasant. In a wood chair by the fire was Katrina, bouncing a child on her knee. Her eyes turned in alarm towards the door when it opened, but when she saw them she rose and lifted the little girl in her arms. Obvious panic and concern slipped away and was replaced by joy.

"Eragon!" Katrina crossed the room in an instant and wrapped her arm around him. After kissing his cheek, she leaned back, though her hand remained on him. "Are you well?"

Eragon could not help but laugh. Everyone asked the same question, and all he could think was how  _well_  he truly felt now. After the loss of Saphira and waking in such confusion, he had been in a poor state of mind. Now he felt things could be made right again and  _believed_  it. Yet as relief washed over him, so too did exhaustion. Perhaps he would sleep well that night.

"I am fine," he told them, and he smiled at the child in Katrina's arms. Little Ismira had grown much in the past year, and her eyes were bright and healthy. He stroked her round cheek with the back of his finger. "Look at you."

Katrina gave the child to him, and Eragon cradled Ismira close. She was uncomfortable with him and nervously eyed her mother, but she did not cry, brave little one that she was. Roran and Katrina worked together to prepare a meal for them, and Eragon sat at the dining table near the wall with Ismira on his knee. He bounced her until she laughed. Then food was served, and it was the best meal Eragon had ever eaten.

All the while, they talked as though they had never been apart. They spoke of daily happenings and of things that were accomplished after the war. Roran had led the reconstruction of Carvahall and was working on plans for a fortified castle, and now more than ever he realized how important it was. Queen Nasuada herself aided in their efforts, and that warmed Eragon's heart.

As the night grew late, Katrina retired to put Ismira to bed. Eragon and Roran continued talking longer still until the door opened and allowed a gust of cold night air into the home that made the flames in the hearth tremble. A man wrapped up in a cloak entered with a laden sigh. A dusting of snow sat upon his hood and fluttered to the floor as he removed the covering.

Eragon stared at him with wide eyes, breathless and shivering from sudden anticipation.

"I should prepare a place for you to sleep," Roran commented, and he took his leave and went upstairs. Eragon barely heard him.

Just inside the door, Brom stopped and stared in wonder just as Eragon did. Neither moved, as if in fear the other might disappear like a flake of melting snow. Slowly, Eragon rose from his seat. Brom appeared just as he remembered him, his bright blue eyes full of strength and wisdom.

Finally, Eragon managed to ask, "Would it be appropriate now… for me to call you 'Father'?" His voice was low from his persistent breathlessness, and his words wavered as he resisted weeping.

Brom smiled all the way to his tear-filled eyes, his face showing his age with many wrinkles. He visibly swallowed hard, and then he tipped his head in a nod. "Yes," he started. "I believe it would be appropriate."

Eragon's resolve failed him and tears slipped down his cheeks. He was on the verge of a sob when he stepped forward, and his father met him halfway and wrapped him in his arms. It was the strongest hold Eragon had ever received, and it was the safest he had ever felt. It was the first embrace of a father and son no longer separated by cruel twists of fate.

"I am so proud of you," Brom told him in a breath, refusing to let go. "My son, I am so proud."

After that, neither said anything for a long time. Both wept, and neither tried to conceal it. Only when the door opened again did they separate, and only barely. Brom kept both hands steady on Eragon's arms, squeezing. It was all that kept Eragon on his feet as his knees went weak and nearly gave way beneath him.

She came through the door without expectation, her head down and eyes weary. Snowflakes were stuck in her brown hair and on her eyelashes. Rosy color painted her otherwise pale cheeks. Eragon had treasured a  _fairth_  of her for the past year and memorized all of its intricacies, but they did not do her any justice. His mother was far more beautiful than any magic could ever hope to capture.

Closing the door, she raised her head and saw him for the first time, and stricken, she froze. Exhaling sharply, she took a single step forward. Tears rolled down her face and glinted in the firelight. "Eragon," she whispered. Tentatively she took another step, and her fingers reached into the air in front of her. Her breathing labored as she asked with great uncertainty, "May I?"

Eragon nodded in haste. Brom had released him, and so he turned instead to Selena. With permission, his mother approached him and took hold of him, and her embrace was fierce and unrelenting yet equally as tender. Kissing first his cheek and then his forehead, she took hold of his face in both hands, holding him close. Her eyes searched him briefly, and then she laughed amidst her sobs.

"Look at you," she said, and her eyes shone brighter than any star. "What a fine man you have become."

"Thanks to you," he answered, filled with gratitude for the mother that had risked everything to spare him from harm. If not for her courage, his life would have been difficult if anything at all. She had saved his life before he was even born.

Her hand caressed his cheek and wiped away his tears, and then she kissed and hugged him again. Brom touched Eragon's back and then wrapped his arms around them both.

Eragon simply let himself be held, and he wept. All of the fear and uncertainty, the pain and hopelessness and every negative thought melted away like a fragile snowflake, gone in an instant. Everything was going to work out.

"To be together with you both is like a dream," his mother spoke softly.

It was like a dream, and Eragon never wanted to wake up. Yet her words gave him pause, brief though it was, and something nagged at the back of his mind. When he could not place it, he pushed it away and relished the moment as it was. All he could hope was this was not just a dream that would vanish when next he opened his eyes. He could not bear such heartbreak.

His parents held him for a long while until Roran's footsteps announced his presence on the stairs. He invited them upstairs to a spare room and to thick and warm bedrolls on the floor, and then he excused himself. Eragon, Brom, and Selena settled under their borrowed blankets and talked through the night about anything—everything—until Eragon fell asleep safe and warm between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. This is not a drill. So CP has previously confirmed that Book V is already plotted out. Tonight, during a Q&A session, someone asked him if he would consider writing a mini series about Murtagh. CP's response was that he already had a book plotted out in which Murtagh would be the POV character (and then he threw in a smiley face). Book V? Dare I dream that Murtagh is our wonderful protagonist for the next major book? That is absolutely SPECTACULAR if it's true.
> 
> Honest to goodness, Murtagh in the FIRST book is what kept me reading the Inheritance Cycle. He was a likable character, and his relationship with Eragon was REAL. Murtagh was rather quite protective of Eragon even from the start, and I have such a soft spot for brotherly relationships. I remember my first read through how upset I was that Eragon only visited him in Tronjheim after Nasuada told him to do it... I kept thinking, OK, enough with the dwarves, go visit your best friend in jail, dang it!
> 
> Anyhow, rambling aside... Murtagh as the main POV character!? I honestly can't wait. Please write faster, CP!


	15. A Feverish Exchange

Murtagh was two years old. A terrible fever had taken him after his raging father had injured his right shoulder and arm. His mother visited him once during that time, and she held him gently to keep from aggravating his wounds. His mind was muddled from pain and medicine, but the wrinkles on her face revealed her anger.

"Why was he not properly healed?" she asked his nursemaid in an accusing tone.

"It was the master's orders," responded the nursemaid, and she shuddered. Selena was not to be trifled with. "He demanded we only keep him alive."

"For what purpose?" Selena snapped, and her eyes were sharp, dark, and terrifying. Murtagh reached with his left arm and touched her face, catching a teardrop on his fingertips. She blinked down at him in surprise, and then she forced a smile. It was always forced, something between joy and agony. "Murtagh…" He tried to speak, but his lungs burned, and he could not make a sound. Regardless, she understood and took his hand. "I am all right, my love. Look at the mess you are, yet you worry about me. Such a compassionate boy."

Gingerly, she placed a hand upon his wounded shoulder and whispered words into his ear that he did not understand. His muscles and bones shifted within him in a quick burst of pain. Then the wounds were gone and not a trace remained. The fever could not so easily be mended. His mother lifted him and cradled him, and he rested his head on her shoulder and drifted in and out of sleep.

"I am so sorry," she whispered to him, though at the time he did not understand why.

It was the last time he saw her, and over half a year later, his father came to tell him she had run away, abandoned them, and died.

His father drowned in his anger and drank more than ever before. Looking back, Murtagh understood it was because of his loss of control. He still had control of Murtagh, though, and he exerted that control whenever possible. Murtagh had more bruises than uninjured places on him. All of the servants knew what was done to him, but everyone was afraid.

Then his father disappeared, as he often did, and it was knights from Urû'baen who came for him next.

Suddenly, Murtagh was eighteen, and he was being taken from Farthen Dûr by the Twins. Tried as they did, they were never able to breach his mind. However, by their magic they tortured him until he was close to death, and then they presented him like a prize to Galbatorix. Murtagh lost track of time as more torture followed, and all the while he retreated into himself and guarded himself against the king's control. Wounds covered him and reminded him of what his father did to him. Battered but alive, weak but not quite dead. If it was meant to make him surrender, it did not work. Pain was a constant friend of his, one of the only things that never failed him, and it was not an adequate weapon against him.

Thorn changed everything.

Galbatorix allowed Murtagh time to heal by instead directing his attacks on the young dragon. He attacked Thorn's mind and body without mercy. He would never kill him, Murtagh understood that, but the desperate screams of a young dragon—of an  _infant_ —were unbearable. His bond with Thorn had grown quickly in their shared unfortunate circumstances, and every time Galbatorix hurt Thorn, a part of Murtagh died.

It went on for days or even weeks, and Murtagh could take it no longer. He surrendered, and Galbatorix took everything from him. He stole into his mind, trampled through his thoughts, and searched through every memory, and nothing was hidden from the king. When Galbatorix was finished, he had discovered Murtagh's true name, along with Thorn's, and there was nothing left to be done.

Galbatorix no longer needed to physically torture Murtagh because he had everything he needed. Regularly he trampled through Murtagh's mind, an intimate connection that made Murtagh sick every time, and kept him from straying. He knew of every weakness in Murtagh and could and did exploit them.

"You are your father's son," explained Galbatorix, and his words were kind. "You will be second only to me." It was not praise, it was condemnation. Anything the king said was meant to manipulate and control, nothing else. Yet another time he said, "Your mother abandoned you… but I never will. Even when you run, I will always seek you." Manipulation and control. "Your brother hates you, but I can bring you together." Manipulation and control. Kind and pretty words did not suit Galbatorix at all, yet he wielded them so easily.

Yet when Murtagh returned from his first encounter with Eragon on the Burning Plains, he knew it would not be pretty words he received. Galbatorix spoke his true name and ripped through his mind with the ferocity of a thousand sharp, swinging blades, and the king did just the same to his body until Murtagh crumbled to the floor of the throne room.

Pain, always present, stayed with him there on the cold floor.

Eragon had asked Murtagh to surrender—to let him kill him. Everyone in the Varden viewed him as an enemy and determined he was exactly as they all thought: he was his father. Why bother fighting? What did it matter if he did? There was nothing for him here or there, only pain.

At that time, Thorn had also been punished, and again, Murtagh felt a new sort of pain, the kind that  _did_  make him want to stand up and fight. Never again would he allow Thorn to suffer anyone's wrath, no matter what it cost him in the process. He would not allow someone, not Galbatorix, nor Eragon or anyone in the Varden, to cause his dragon harm.

"You have become your father," Eragon had told him.

"You will be to me as your father was," Galbatorix had said.

No negotiations. It was a matter set in stone, and there was nothing that could be done about it. Murtagh stared up from the floor, red clouds swirling over his eyes. Galbatorix stepped over him, his eyes cruel.

"You will never disobey me again," said the king, and his words were like knives stabbing Murtagh's chest. Galbatorix crouched and touched Murtagh's face. "If you try, I assure you I will not be so merciful." Then the king rose and walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing through the vast throne room.

Murtagh lay paralyzed on the floor, and then the pain began again for both him and Thorn. It had been too quick, too easy.

Red and black flashed across his vision, and Murtagh suddenly jolted upright and let out an agonized scream. There was a loud crash that echoed in his throbbing head, and he scrambled to reach for a sword or bow but found nothing. His mind was reeling and his eyes refused to reveal anything other than dark, blurred shapes. Was he in Urû'baen? Had that not been a year ago?

Then a single voice broke through the ringing in his ears, and it made him stop. "Murtagh! Be still!"

Murtagh stopped where he was, his back against a wall. Slowly the world crept into view, though nothing was familiar. Several cots lined the walls of a large wood home, and a warm fire blazed near a back wall. The cot he was nearest to had a rumpled blanket and sheets, and there was a bowl of water and a towel on the nearest table. A woman wearing a heavy dress with an apron stood at a distance with wide eyes, and Thorn was holding Murtagh's arm.

"Murtagh, it is all right," Thorn told him, and his words were quiet, comforting. "Stay still."

Memories of the Lethrblaka just outside of Carvahall came roaring to mind. He had been desperate to spare Eragon and the villagers and resorted to striking the creature's mind, but the Lethrblaka was strong like a fortress. With one final blow he had hoped to take the creature out, and since he was alive, he assumed it had worked.

Just as Murtagh came to the conclusion he was still in Carvahall, the door flew open and slammed against the wall. A man appeared that Murtagh recognized only vaguely from his strange experience in Eragon's mind, and so he knew it was Roran. He had a wild look about him, and in one hand he wielded a large hammer.

"What's going on?" Roran asked, and he shot an accusing look at Murtagh. "Gertrude, what did he do?"

The woman called Gertrude spun at him and waved her hands about in a panic. "Nothing! I was just startled." Immediately she calmed herself and frowned at Murtagh, wringing the hem of her apron. "You were yelling in your sleep and I thought you were being harmed." Now she approached and gave him a stern look. "Nightmares from the fever no doubt. Back into bed with you. Do you have any idea what you put us through?"

"Gertrude—" started Roran with a slight growl.

"Put down your hammer, Roran. He did nothing to me." At her command, Roran lowered his weapon, but the scowl on his face remained. Gertrude tapped her foot on the floor and folded her arms. To Murtagh, she demanded, "You only just recovered from several severe injuries. Unfortunately there is no easy fix for that fever. Now stop moving and lie down before you make it worse."

Murtagh scanned the room and found most of his possessions still on his person or nearby the bed. Gathering his bow and quiver of arrows, as well as the few other things they had taken from him, he put everything back on. Thorn murmured at him, Roran raised his hammer again, and Gertrude stomped her foot on the floor.

"Young man," she snapped, catching his attention but barely. "Do you have any idea how unwell you are? If your fever was any higher I would throw you out in the snow." Ignoring her, he slipped past her towards the door. "Are you listening to me?"

Murtagh dug a handful of crowns out of the pouch on his belt and set them on a table as he passed by. "Thank you for your help," he said without much thought. Thorn scurried after him.

As he was passing, Roran caught his arm and squeezed to the point of harm. He lifted his hammer and placed it across Murtagh's abdomen, blocking him. Their eyes met, and Roran's expression was lethal. Quiet so Gertrude did not hear, he said to Murtagh, "I will never forget what you did. And if you do anything to hurt  _my brother_ , I will put you in the ground."

Murtagh yanked his arm back and did not waver. Curtly he replied, "Good to see you as well,  _cousin._ " Then he exited the building, and only Thorn followed him.

Outside, snow covered the town, but the sun was warm and bright. People were busy with their daily tasks as though they had been at it for a long while. It must have been late in the day. Nothing in the town was damaged, and for that he was glad.

"Murtagh, stop," Thorn chided. "You are unwell and should be resting."

"I will rest when we put an end to this."

Murtagh ignored Thorn tugging on his arm and searched the village. He needed a sword. Stabbing the Lethrblaka in the eye with a dagger was effective, but stabbing it in the eye with a sword would have been significantly  _more_  effective. On the other side of town was a large building with weapons and shields propped along its stone foundation. A great deal of smoke rose from a hole in the roof.

On his way to what he assumed was a blacksmith's abode, Murtagh noticed out of the corner of his eye a ball of white soaring through the air.

Further in town, near a particularly large house, was a small, redheaded child tumbling through the snow and hurling little balls of snow with her pudgy hands. Her target was none other than Eragon, who ducked and evaded gracefully most of the time but occasionally took a hit on purpose, collapsing. The child squealed with delight and tackled him. Brom and Selena stood nearby, and when Eragon rose, Selena joined in the battle and threw snow at Eragon, too. All of them were laughing.

Murtagh shrank behind a building and watched from the shadows. Selena's laugh rang loud and clear, and he had never heard anything like it. No one could convince him that she was not the happiest person in all of Alagaësia. In fact, now that they were all together, they all seemed happier. Even Eragon, who had been noticeably depressed since his rescue, had his head held high.

"You should go to them," Thorn suggested, and he tugged on Murtagh's heavy cloak.

Murtagh thought the exact opposite. Though originally the prospect of traveling with Eragon had been appealing, now he realized it was a mistake. Eragon was no stronger than an ordinary human and their enemies were wickedly dangerous. The same was also true for Selena—and Brom as well. It would be safer for all of them to remain as they were, though Murtagh doubted Eragon would easily be convinced to stay.

Perhaps he simply should not bother.

As he contemplated leaving them behind without saying a word, Eragon handed the little girl to a woman, presumably her mother, and then he, Selena, and Brom waved and walked away together. Murtagh turned to leave and bumped into Thorn, who intentionally grounded himself and held the nearest house for stability. He did not get around Thorn in time.

"Murtagh!" called Eragon, stopping him and causing him to turn.

Their bright smiles vanished in a blink. Murtagh wished he did not have that effect on others.

"Should you be up?" Eragon asked, his brow furrowed as his eyes searched Murtagh for injury. "You were in rough shape last night."

"He has a high fever," stated Thorn without hesitation, and Murtagh shot him a look. The child was not at all bothered by it.

"I did my best to heal your injuries, but the fever is because you are pushing yourself too hard," Selena explained, and she folded her arms across her chest. She and Eragon wore similar expressions. "If you keep it up, you will not recover."

"You should go inside and rest," Eragon suggested.

Murtagh wrestled with an appropriate response and simply decided upon "I intend to leave tomorrow for Ellesméra. I think it best you stay here." As he said so, he looked first to Eragon, then to Selena, and finally to Brom.

"Stay here?" Eragon echoed, and he raised an eyebrow. Of the trio, he was the only one who seemed bothered by the suggestion. "Have you forgotten that I am directly involved in this? And what I have lost?" His tone was accusing, as if Murtagh was a monster for even the thought, but his words were also heavy with desperation. "I will go as far as Ellesméra and more to reach Saphira, and I care not about the danger."

"I intend to go where Eragon goes," Selena concluded, and Brom nodded as well. Eragon frowned in confusion as she spoke with Murtagh. "Besides, you seem to like danger. My healing magic will be of use to you." Dropping her hands to her sides, her face softened and she smiled. It was slight but genuine. "Besides, I owe you much. You brought my son back to me."

Murtagh's eyes flicked in Eragon's direction, and his younger brother stared first at Selena and then met eyes with him. Eragon opened his mouth to speak but could not, and then he pressed his lips into a thin line. Confusion shifted to frustration, but he held his tongue.

"Fine," Murtagh concluded, and he turned away, heading towards the building he thought was a forge. "I will find you tomorrow before I leave."

And that was that. Murtagh had nothing more to say to them and went back to business. Thorn remained on his heels, and the child never lost his harsh expression, but he ignored him.

Before he reached his destination, however, Eragon caught up with them. "Murtagh!" Murtagh stopped but did not turn around. "What is going on?" Still he said nothing, and so Eragon grabbed his arm and forced him to turn. His younger sibling was shaking not from cold but from anger, his jaw clenched and muscles rigid. "Enough evading. Answer me!"

"What do you want from me?" Murtagh yanked his arm away from him, tired of people jerking him around. Brom and Selena had gone back to a large house and left them alone. "I already told you I intend to help you free Saphira and rescue the eggs and Eldunarí. What more do you want?"

"I want you to tell me what is going on," Eragon stated firmly. "Enough secrets and lies!"

"I did not lie to you," Murtagh snapped, and he was suddenly acutely aware of his extreme fatigue and high fever. It was particularly hard to keep a hold on his tongue, and anger that he usually kept parceled away boiled to the surface. "And you and I are not allies. I am under no obligation to tell you anything."

"Not allies," Eragon echoed, and his eyes narrowed. "Is that how you truly feel?"

It was absolutely not how Murtagh truly felt, but it was a practical escape method. Besides, even if he did not feel that way, he knew Eragon did. It was a statement made not regarding his thoughts but those of his brother. Thorn watched the exchange between them and eventually stepped away, shuffling uncomfortably in the snow and concealing himself with his hood.

"What do you want from me?" Murtagh repeated, refusing to answer the question with what would have to be a lie.

"Where were you when all of this happened? How do you know what happened to Saphira and the others?" asked Eragon, sharply. "How do you know so much about any of this?"

His words were confirmation of something Murtagh had wondered this whole time: did Eragon have any inkling that he had went to meet him in the first place? Apparently not. Too much had happened then, and Murtagh's presence had either never been noticed in the chaos or had simply been forgotten. At the very least, he was glad for it.

"I was with Thorn as I have been this past year," he explained. Already determined not to lie, he carefully selected all his words. "Alagaësia has been in peril, and I learned various things through my encounters with the Lethrblaka, Ra'zac, and other people."

"Who is causing all of this? You know, don't you?"

"I do not."

"You are lying."

"I am not!" Murtagh yelled, and the accusation was like a slap to the face. He kept his secrets, and Eragon knew why, but he had never been one to lie his way out of anything. The persistent rage eating away at him he attributed to his fever. The burning sensation behind his eyes he also blamed on the fever. "If I knew, I would tell you! Lethrblaka, Ra'zac—spirits! That is all I know, and I have told you this!"

Eragon exhaled slowly and finally accepted his words.

Clouds rolled across the sky like a soft gray blanket, eventually consuming the late afternoon sunlight. Wind blew snow off a nearby roof, twirling white flakes through the air in a mesmerizing dance. Murtagh drew his hood up and covered his head, chilled, and then he turned again to leave.

"What about our mother?" Eragon asked, and Murtagh froze.

"What about her?" He turned, and the wind took his hood back down.

Eragon scrutinized him for a long while until Murtagh considered leaving. Thorn stood aside and watched with only a sideways look, and he held his hood in place with both hands. No one was paying attention to them, not really, but every now and again a villager would pass by, sense the tension, and then hurry on their way.

Some great realization dawned on Eragon, and his eyes went wide. Barely above a whisper, he said, "She doesn't remember who you are." Searching the snow at his feet, he shook his head and frowned at Murtagh. "And you have no intention of telling her, do you? That is why you made me swear an oath."

Murtagh watched Eragon's reaction but remained apathetic about it all. When it seemed his younger sibling had nothing else to say, he turned to leave. Exhaustion wore on him, and the fever probably did need tending to. He ought to request medicine from the healer, Gertrude.

"Why are you doing this?" Eragon questioned, and his voice was faint. Once again, he made Murtagh pause. Grim and with a familiar accusing tone, he dared to ask, "Are you doing this to yourself on purpose?"

Shaking, Murtagh turned again and faced Eragon. Violent anger boiled to the surface, and it took everything in him to press it back down. Tears stung his eyes from hurt, fury, fever, or a combination of all three. His words cracked as they often did when emotions ran too high, and he hated himself for it.

"On purpose?" he echoed. Eragon's face fell and his lips parted, but Murtagh did not give him the opportunity to speak again. "You know what, Eragon? I am doing this on purpose—everything from the day I was born until today." Words kept pouring out of him, and he could not stop himself, even as Thorn let out a gasp and Eragon sank further in dismay. A cold streak on his cheek suggested the presence of a fallen tear. "Everything to this very day I have done intentionally to myself. I chose a father that would beat me, I chose a king that would hunt and enslave me…" Several tears fell now, and he had to force the rest of the words out because he needed to say them. "And by my choice I made my mother care so little for me that she does not even remember who I am." Murtagh pulled his hood up to conceal his face as best he could. "Yes, Eragon. It was all on purpose."

Turning abruptly on his heels, he stormed away.


	16. Sound of Falling Snow

Snow fell over the forest and blanketed everything in white. Murtagh settled against the base of a tree and pulled up his hood, and eventually snow covered him, too. It was painfully cold, but he allowed it to linger until he felt nothing at all. There was a strange sort of respite in the numbness. His anger fizzled out and was replaced by familiar pangs of shame and guilt.

In hindsight, he understood perfectly that Eragon's words had not been so cruel, and he regretted lashing out. It was an unfortunate habit of his that a year apart could not cure, for a lifetime of distrust and disdain made it all too easy for Murtagh to assume the worst. Nevertheless, it was inexcusable. His reaction was his alone, and it had been a poor one.

A fog settled over his mind.

All his life, people had pointed fingers at him, and he had in turn pointed at everyone but himself. Few ever truly cared to hear him, and so he kept trying to explain his fear and heartache, hoping someday someone might understand. But blaming others had done nothing to aid his cause. A victim in mind would forever stay a victim, and so he decided firmly that the only finger he would point was at himself. Attempting to justify himself had become too much a burden.

Introspection made him tired, and sleep pulled at him. Only when Murtagh heard footsteps did he raise his head off his bent knees, though he kept his arms tightly folded around his legs. A familiar head of fiery hair appeared in stark contrast against the bleached forest, and crimson eyes found him in an instant. Thorn approached, and Murtagh put his head down.

"Oh, Murtagh," started Thorn with equal parts compassion and disappointment.

"I was wrong," Murtagh told him abruptly. "I know."

Spared from having to give a lecture, the child closed the distance between them and sat in the snow beside him. Strangely unaccustomed to the warmth, Murtagh shivered when Thorn pressed against his side. There was around them only the sound of falling snow.

Quietly and with concern, Thorn said, "You should return and rest where it is warm."

It was wise advice, but Murtagh did not want to go back. He did not want to face Eragon yet, especially not while his mind was so muddled, and he did not want to interfere. Tomorrow would come soon enough for such things. Resting his head on his knees, he closed his eyes and allowed sleep to come.

Sunset came fast, followed by darkness. Once or twice Murtagh awoke and used magic to warm the air, and only for Thorn who refused to leave his side, and then he slept again while wrapped in the soothing embrace of feeling nothing at all. When day broke, he awoke weak and sore. Nevertheless, he forced his body to rise and returned to Carvahall, and Thorn went after him. Neither spoke.

Murtagh went directly to the building he thought was a smithy's shop. Sure enough, the sound of metal pounding on metal could be heard behind the large two-story home. At the back of the building, two wide doors opened to reveal an impressive workshop. A large man with wild black hair and two young men worked together to hammer away at a blazing red shaft of iron. The moment Murtagh stepped into their line of sight, the young man with blond hair stopped and stared, and eventually both of his companions did the same.

"I am looking to purchase a sword," Murtagh explained, and a familiar sense of dread settled over him. The two young men were first confused and then upset, and the older man stood straight and his grip on his hammer tightened.

"Aren't you…" began the young man with dark hair, and his eyes were full of mistrust.

He did not have to finish his sentence, for Murtagh knew well enough by then how to fill in the blanks. With a sigh, he revealed a handful of crowns and said, "I can pay well. I need a decent weapon."

The elder man shifted and scrutinized Murtagh, and the two younger men exchanged looks.

"Nevermind," Murtagh decided, knowing full well from their body language and expressions that they had no intention of helping him. When he stuffed the crowns away and turned, they did not try to stop him.

Sometimes it was impressive how his reputation preceded him even to the farthest corners of Alagaësia.

On his way through the village, Murtagh spotted Eragon near Gertrude's home, and immediately his stomach sank. This was a conversation he had been dreading since the moment he  _left_  the village the evening before, but he decided to get it out of the way. With Thorn on his heels, he approached his younger sibling. Eragon was angry, and his frown tightened as Murtagh drew near. Yes, Murtagh certainly had that effect on others.

"Where have you been?" snapped Eragon.

"I lost track of time whilst frolicking in the snow," Murtagh answered with a perfectly straight face.

"Be serious!" Eragon grabbed at his head as if in pain, heaving a sigh.

"Oh, I take my snow frolicking very seriously." This quip earned Murtagh a nip from Thorn in the back of his thigh, and he scowled at the child lurking in his shadow.

Silence settled over them. Eragon waited impatiently for an appropriate response to his initial question.

Instead of providing one, Murtagh exhaled and rubbed the back of his head. "About yesterday," he started, and he kept his voice low. No matter how hard he tried, he could not look Eragon in the face, and so he stared at a pebble sticking out of the snow between his feet. "I apologize for how I reacted."

"I meant none of those things," Eragon told him not defensively but to simply assure him it was the truth.

"I know." Murtagh managed to lift his head and meet eyes with him. The initial anger in his sibling was gone, but his expression was unreadable. Perhaps it was worry or indifference, but he did not care to try to understand. "I'm sorry."

Before Eragon had the opportunity to say anything else, the door to Gertrude's house opened, and Selena stepped out. She saw them at once.

"Murtagh!" Approaching, she stood beside Eragon and gave Murtagh a look. "Gertrude was about ready to send a small army after you. She prepared medicine for your fever."

"I will see her before we depart," Murtagh promised. If there was something that could take the edge off his fever and keep him in his right mind, he would gladly accept it.

"Good," said Selena, and her attention turned to Eragon. "I am going to gather our supplies at the house. Your father should be about ready to leave."

Eragon nodded, and Selena left them, heading up the path to the largest house. When they were left to themselves, his younger sibling faced him with a grim expression. It took a while for him to work up the courage to ask, "Why are you keeping it a secret?"

His words were spoken not in condemnation but in genuine confusion. Thorn waited expectantly for the answer. Murtagh shifted, watching Selena as she went on her way. It was a difficult question, but the answer was simple.

"Have you seen her smile? Heard her laugh?" he asked in return, and Eragon tipped his head. Murtagh could not convince his brother of anything, and so he did not try to justify his actions. He simply told it how it was. The words hurt as they left him and made his chest ache, but it was a familiar pain and he accepted it. "I never had."

Both Eragon and Thorn frowned at his answer. He swallowed a dry lump in his throat and steadied his breathing.

"She remembers Brom, she remembers you—she remembers the things that made her happy," he explained. His voice trembled. Despite the pain, he found himself truly glad to say what he did. "She remembers nothing before that. My father who enslaved her, the things he made her do… now she is truly free of it, and so she can smile and laugh." Carefully choosing his words, and with a tired smile on his face, he said, "I cannot escape who my father is, but she can be free of him once and for all. I will not take that away from her."

Eragon stared at him, and his eyes were glossy. His sibling frowned at the ground, torn in his thinking, and then met eyes with him again. "She has a right to know who you are."

"Maybe," Murtagh admitted. "But it is not worth the price it would cost her."  _He_  was not worth what it would cost her—somewhere deep down, Murtagh accepted this to be true.

"Eragon!" called out Roran from down the path, distracting them both. In his hand he carried his hammer, and a harsh look overtook his face, both of which Murtagh knew were meant for him.

"I am going to get medicine," Murtagh said as he shuffled towards Gertrude's home. "I will take Sandstorm and wait outside of town."

He received a nod from Eragon but nothing else.

Murtagh led Thorn into Gertrude's house, and the moment he stepped inside, the woman hurried to the door and fussed over him. She ordered he sit, and he did, and proceeded to check his fever and press on his ribs where presumably bones had been broken. All the while, Murtagh sat with wide eyes and strong feelings of discomfort, for he was not used to the attention. When the healer walked away to fetch medicine, Thorn approached with a toothy grin.

"You look rather uncomfortable," said the child. Murtagh grabbed the side of Thorn's head and shoved him over onto a nearby cot, and Thorn laughed at him.

Gertrude returned with a large spoon and a satchel in hand, and she drew a dark brown bottle out of the leather case. Liquid swished inside. Passing the bottle and spoon to him, she explained, "Two spoonfuls three times a day for as long as you have that fever."

Folding her arms, she stood over him and waited. At once he poured a spoon and drank, followed by another. The green liquid was thick like grainy pottage and was bitter, likely composed of several wild plants. Medicine was not a field of interest to him, and he simply hoped what she gave him did not kill him.

Satisfied, Gertrude stepped back. "Watch that fever, understood? If it gets out of hand, I recommend you see another healer during your travels."

"Thank you," Murtagh said, and he meant it. Rising, he put the bottle of medicine and the spoon in the satchel. As he reached for more crowns, she caught his wrist.

"There's no need," she told him. "You already paid plenty."

"Are you certain?" he asked.

Gertrude smiled and nodded, and then she patted him on the back and ushered him to the door. "Now take good care of yourself." Pausing and releasing him, she added, "Thank you for looking after Eragon and bringing him back safely, and for protecting all of us."

Warmed by her appreciation, Murtagh smiled and then exited her home. With Thorn following close behind, they discovered Sandstorm being kept at someone's stable. He paid for the horse's stay and also bought some food to take along. By then, their finances were thinning.

"This has been an expensive trip," he told Thorn as they waited with Sandstorm outside of town.

"Stop paying for things," suggested Thorn, sitting in the saddle.

"That is called stealing," Murtagh replied. He put the medicine and supplies away in one of the saddlebags. Thorn shrugged at him but said nothing else, having given his best solution to no avail.

Together they waited on the outskirts of town until the rest of their traveling companions arrived. Eragon came first, and he had changed drastically since his rescue. Color had returned to his cheeks, his eyes were bright and fiery, and he carried himself with the strength of any great warrior. His confusion was not entirely alleviated, but good food and good company had drawn him out of his depressed stupor. Behind him were Selena and Brom chatting with smiles on their faces.

"Ready to go?" Eragon asked.

Murtagh nodded and turned, leading the horse.

During the course of the day, the warm sunlight had made the snow thick and heavy. Murtagh, with Sandstorm's help, cleared an easier path for his companions behind him. By the time they were leaving the mountains, the sun cast an amber sheen across the plain and gave the rolling hills of snow the appearance of desert sand. Once on the plain, Murtagh's body dragged and he stumbled, and so he joined Thorn in the saddle after pausing to take another dose of medicine.

Night fell upon them and darkened their path, and they sought shelter in a sparse patch of trees. Murtagh was not allowed to use warming magic—everyone opposed it—and so they had to depend on a fire to ward off the chill. After having a simple meal of dried meat and bread brought from Carvahall, they settled down for the night. Eragon sank between Selena and Brom, and their mother stayed near enough to touch shoulders with him. Thorn slithered underneath Murtagh's arm and crawled into his lap for warmth. Dragons were not familiar with the cold quite like humans.

Day two was about as uneventful as the first. As they neared the sea, the snow on the ground diminished until only scant traces of it could be seen between crunchy blades of grass. Du Weldenvarden lay on the horizon like a golden sea with vibrant crimson waves.

Eragon, Brom, and Selena took the lead that day. Twice Selena reached for Brom's hand and they walked with fingers entwined, and many more times would she touch Eragon's back for no other purpose than to make contact with him. Murtagh always averted his gaze.

"Are you all right?" Thorn whispered to him once, leaning against Murtagh in the saddle. "I am not referring to your fever."

Murtagh's cheeks burned. "I will be fine."

"Even when I do not share your feelings," began Thorn with a sharp exhale, "I know very well what you are thinking."

"I know," Murtagh laughed. His smile shrank, but it remained nonetheless. "It is difficult, but I am glad for them."

Thorn tipped his head back, and his eyes glinted in the sunlight. After scrutinizing Murtagh, he said, "You are being honest." Straightening, the child added, "Yet you are lonely. I can tell. Is it not appropriate behavior for a human to nestle their kin for comfort? You need to be nestled."

Murtagh's entire face burned, but he could not help his lopsided smile. "I have given you a very poor understanding of humans, haven't I?"

With perfect ignorance and absolute sincerity, Thorn concluded, "I will nestle you later."

Murtagh rubbed a hand over his face and laughed.

Along the edge of the river, they stopped for the night. Warm air enveloped them like a blanket and, along with the fire, kept them very comfortable. With fully bellies and the sound of churning water not far off, they settled for a night of much-needed rest. Thorn remained true to his promise and attempted to cuddle Murtagh like a mother would their child. Murtagh dodged and eventually wrestled Thorn to the ground and held him in place with one arm, and that is how they went to sleep.

All the while Brom and Selena stared with raised eyebrows and Eragon smirked.


	17. Where Monsters Lurk

A scream jolted Murtagh from his slumber, and he was on his feet reaching for a non-existent sword at his hip before he even looked around. Thorn leapt to his feet beside him, his head snapping in every direction. On the other side of the smoldering fire, Selena and Brom were on their knees, and between them in the dry grass lay Eragon, writhing and wailing like a dying man.

It sparked in Murtagh memories of the night after rescuing Eragon, and a heavy weight pressed against his chest.

"What happened?" he asked, rounding the fire and kneeling beside his sibling.

"Nothing," Brom informed him. One of his hands was on Eragon's chest and the other his shoulder in a vain attempt to keep him still. Nonetheless, Eragon twisted and clawed his way backwards, shrieking. "I was keeping watch—he simply started screaming."

"Eragon," Selena crooned, stroking his hair. Whenever he allowed it, she leaned close and tried to whisper in his ear, but her words did not reach him. He thrashed when she came close and resisted her touch as well as Brom's.

Eragon's eyes rolled and eyelids twitched. Every muscle in his body contracted until his back arched off the ground, and then he twisted onto his side and reached across the ground for something that was not there. All the while, he screamed. Murtagh had seen many men in the throes of death, and Eragon played the part well.

"I can help him," Murtagh assured them, but his unsteady voice betrayed his lack of confidence.

"Please," whispered Selena. Tears threatened to roll down her cheeks.

Murtagh nodded and then closed his eyes. Recalling his abrupt departure from his own mind the  _last_  time, he reached into Eragon's consciousness with much trepidation. As soon as a connection was made, something fierce like a powerful hand snatched him away from himself and hurled him again into the world inside Eragon's head. Everything was a mess of spinning black and orange until Murtagh landed on solid rock. Once again his consciousness took the form of his real body, capable of movement and pain.

Charred stone stretched for as far as the eye could see. Rivers of fire carved their way through the black rock and painted the sky with suffocating red smoke. Sulfur stung Murtagh's nose and made his eyes water. Screams echoed through the barren wasteland but originated from nowhere.

Standing with his back to Murtagh was Eragon, and in his hand he held the blue sword called Brisingr. In front of him lay the tattered body of Saphira, slain.

"Eragon," started Murtagh, and he tried to take a step. His feet were heavy like iron and his legs refused to move.

On the horizon arose a swirling black storm alight with lightning.

Eragon shuddered. "This is your fault. Everything is your fault."

"This is not real." Murtagh tried to move but could not, and he went so far as to grab his own leg in an effort to force it to move. His feet would not budge, not even slightly. "We have been here before, remember? This is an illusion in your mind!"

"Enough lies!" Eragon whirled around, and tears streaked his cheeks. "Why should I ever trust anything you say?"

Murtagh had countless excellent reasons to give, particularly that he did not make a habit of telling lies, but he swallowed his pride. An argument would not help the situation any. Framing Eragon was the storm that drew ever closer, and something about it made a chill crawl up Murtagh's spine. Lightning flashed but never once did it thunder.

"Eragon, please—"

"Stop! I don't want to hear it!" screamed Eragon, and he raised Brisingr in a streak of blue. "You should have let me kill you!" Murtagh's eyes went wide and his lips parted, but not a sound left him. His brother added in agony, "If you were dead, none of this would have happened! Now draw your sword and face me!"

Murtagh blinked and touched his hip, drawing the crimson sword Zar'roc from the sheath at his side. The blade was covered in blood that dripped down the guard and onto his hand. Not only the sword, but Murtagh's clothing was also stained in blood that had not been there moments before. He frowned at his palm covered in red, and then he searched for Eragon again.

"Look what you have done," said his brother, and his words wavered.

Behind Eragon and Saphira, strewn across the wasteland known as the Burning Plains, lay the bodies of countless dead. Arya, Nasuada, Roran—anyone that meant anything to Eragon was dead, and all of their blood was on Murtagh's hands. Even though he knew it was an illusion, Murtagh trembled at the sight. Under Galbatorix's command, countless people  _had_  died because of him. Blood was on his hands whether he had wanted it to be there or not, and so he tried to wipe his palm on the sleeve of his linen shirt now stained red. It did not come off.

Black clouds rolled over their heads, boiling and churning like waves of water in a terrible storm. Lights flashed in the darkness and caught Murtagh's gaze, and his stomach dropped. It was not lightning overhead but rather the flashing eyes of the dark spirits, and their bodies made up the entirety of the sky like a vast lake of black mud. Droplets of darkness like enormous teardrops stretched out of the heavens toward the ground.

"Eragon, listen to me," Murtagh demanded, sweat on his brow. "We need to get out of here, and then I will explain everything. Please—"

"No!" Eragon set his feet in a wide stance, tilting the blade of Brisingr forward. "I will never forgive you!"

Suddenly, Eragon was gone, and then he reappeared as if out of thin air directly behind Murtagh, his sword flashing. Murtagh exhaled and twisted out of the blade's reach but stumbled in the process, landing on his back. Eragon screamed and clasped the grip of his sword in both hands, bringing the blade down over Murtagh's chest. Murtagh rolled, and shining blue metal smashed into the ground, tearing a hole in the stone until liquid fire bubbled through the crack.

"Eragon! Stop!"

Murtagh flipped onto his feet at the last moment, holding Zar'roc parallel to his body in order to block Brisingr as it swept out of the ground and in his direction. Blue and red metal clashed in a shower of sparks. Eragon gritted his teeth and snarled, ramming his entire weight against Murtagh. Both staggered backwards until Murtagh stomped his boot on the ground and braced himself. Eragon swung his sword relentlessly, and Murtagh parried every strike.

After the initial shock, Murtagh should have had the upper hand. However, he was distracted. Cracks in the rock beneath their feet spread out as if they were standing on thin ice, and brilliant orange liquid, thick like mud, boiled out of the ground. From the clouds above, tendrils like lanky arms reached down and touched the earth. Anything the darkness touched was devoured, leaving nothing behind but empty black space. Dark hands formed from the tendrils and crawled across the ground, reaching and searching. Slowly they closed in.

"Eragon!" Murtagh yelled, and he wanted to shake his sibling and wake him from the grip of the illusion.

Eragon screamed as he cried. Blinded by pain and without the common sense of a skilled warrior, he swung his sword about. As he was, Eragon did not care if he lived or died. The false reality in his head had stripped him of his will to live. Murtagh feinted right and thrust Zar'roc into Brisingr's decorative guard. He flicked his wrist and stole the sword from his brother's hand. Yet in the time it took for Eragon to widen his eyes in surprise, Brisingr clattered on the ground, disappeared, and then reappeared in Eragon's hand.

No matter the part Murtagh played here, it was Eragon's reality.

Across the surface of stone, liquid fire burned away everything that had been. The sky collapsed around them, coming ever closer, and more and more tendrils dripped from the heavens and tore away at the world. Beneath them the earth groaned and shifted as it gradually fell apart. Behind Murtagh appeared a vast void, solid black, and he recognized it as the divide between his mind and Eragon's. Somehow, Eragon was winning the battle and was pushing him back into his own head. Meanwhile, the dark spirits closed in.

"Eragon, something is coming and we have to get out of here," Murtagh insisted, deflecting several blows from Eragon. Winning a sword fight was impossible, and all that left him was his words. "I want to explain but not here!"

"I will never listen to you!" roared Eragon, and he threw his entire body weight forward as he thrust Brisingr ahead.

Murtagh stumbled towards the void, and his own mind nearly received him back. Yet he refused to leave Eragon. Dark hands surrounded them while flashing eyes bore down upon them from the heavens. The air reverberated with inaudible laughter, and Murtagh felt it deep in his bones. With nothing left to lose, Murtagh swung Zar'roc towards Eragon's side, a familiar tactic, and his brother responded in kind by shoving Brisingr through his abdomen and out his back. Zar'roc clattered to the ground. Murtagh staggered off the blade of Brisingr and clasped the hole in his stomach as hot blood seeped between his fingers. Even in an illusion, pain was very real.

"There!" Murtagh said, and he forced himself to remain on his feet. "Satisfied? I am as good as dead. Now be quiet and listen!"

Eragon stepped back, his eyes wide and mouth open. His gaze shot from Murtagh's injury to the blade that had inflicted it, and then he dropped Brisingr. Dark hands sloshed across the ground like crashing waves, closing in around them. Murtagh ignored everything and met eyes with his brother.

"I know you have no reason to trust me, but right now, I need you to. I need to get you out of here… back to Mother, to Brom… and to Saphira. Understand?" Murtagh's knees wobbled. Everything was turning black, and it was not merely from the sky falling down around them. Eragon stared at him and shivered. Murtagh kept one hand on his wound and reached the other, blood and all, towards his brother. "Trust me just this once. Eragon, please…" Suddenly the entire world began to tip, like he was falling. Steadying his feet, he maintained his gaze on Eragon, and his voice cracked as he said, "Please…"

Darkness all but enveloped Eragon, for the tendrils could not touch him, not yet. They curled around him and threatened to swallow him up, and everything else in the world had been devoured. Only a short path to Murtagh remained. Eragon shook, and then he leapt forward and took Murtagh's hand. Darkness followed him, threatening to overcome him with the speed and force of a raging river. It roared in their ears and shook their bodies.

Murtagh grabbed the back of Eragon's shirt and spun, jumping into the void.

Silence followed save the sound of their breathing. Murtagh and Eragon landed in pure black darkness, yet their bodies were visible to each other, bright as though in broad daylight. Instead of falling, they rolled across an unseen ground and lay sprawled next to each other as they panted for air.

Eragon popped up first and scanned their surroundings, and then he turned on Murtagh and fell back. He looked for an injury that was not there.

"I told you." Murtagh sat up and checked his hands. Not a trace of blood remained. His mind was heavy, as though in a thick fog, but all of the pain was gone. He met Eragon's gaze. "None of it was real."

Countless emotions passed across Eragon's face too quickly to identify, and then he sat with his back to Murtagh. He drew his knees to his chest and folded his arms across them, looking ahead into the void. Murtagh rose and closed the gap between them, taking a seat behind Eragon. He pressed his back to his brother's, giving both something to lean on. Bending a knee, he set his arm over it.

"I cannot tell truth from lies," Eragon whispered, and his voice broke, on the verge of sobbing. "Everything is so confusing…" Then he covered his face with his hands. His body trembled against Murtagh's.

Murtagh allowed him a moment to weep, for the illusion had caused real suffering. It gave him time to think, too, and finally he spoke as gentle and reassuring as he could. "Your father and mother are waiting for you when you wake up, and Saphira is waiting, too." Pressing his back against Eragon, he stopped his brother from shaking. "Everything will be all right."

Eragon's body sank as he exhaled a long breath. He drew his knees closer, but his body stilled. Whispering, he said, "I am so sorry."

Murtagh did not respond—there was no need to. Even if the illusions were repressed feelings Eragon had for him, they were rightfully deserved. He had killed countless people of value to Eragon. Even though he had not wanted to fight, their blood was still on his hands and would never go away.

Shifting slightly, Eragon touched the back of his head to Murtagh's. He sighed, and his entire body drooped as all of the fear and tension drained out of him. "I am fine now. You don't have to stay here with me."

A small smile tugged at Murtagh's lips. Eragon's words were far braver than his meek tone. Raising and dropping his shoulders, he responded, "I have nowhere else to be."

"Thanks." Eragon unraveled himself and stretched out his legs, his hands falling to rest between them. His head turned as he searched the darkness, and then he nudged his shoulder against Murtagh. A smile in his voice, he said, "You must be the only person alive who can take someone hostage in  _your_  head."

"I know," Murtagh laughed. "I am rather impressed." Turning slightly to catch the reaction, he said, "I wonder how long I can keep you here—"

"Please don't," grumbled Eragon, and he brought a hand to his shaking head.

Murtagh chuckled and leaned back. Together they remained as such until darkness crept over them both, Eragon first and Murtagh second, and they fell asleep.

\-----

Indiscernible voices disrupted Murtagh from his sleep.

Darkness held him fast, but his mind became acutely aware of his surroundings even when his eyes would not open. Pain seared every inch of him and grew worse the longer he was aware of it, and he turned his body in an attempt to get away from whatever was causing it. Moving increased the pain tenfold, and he groaned through dry, cracked lips. Sharp pain erupted across his forehead and spread throughout his entire body. Despite the sensation that he was hot, he shook uncontrollably.

Opening his eyes proved difficult, and even when he did, his vision was hazy at best. Dark browns whirled together over his head like a muddy puddle. His ears were buzzing, but he could still hear voices off to one side. A bright light nearby made him flinch. Suddenly new shades of brown—and some red and silver, too—floated around him. Hands touched and lifted his head, and as much as he appreciated the warmth, he had a strong desire to fight them.

A man's voice spoke words that he could not understand, and though he recognized the voice, he could not place it. The man said his name. Next spoke a woman, calm and reassuring, and she said his name, too. Something touched his lips, and then a thick liquid spilled into his mouth. It made him shiver and gag at the same time, but someone was holding his head and preventing him from spitting it out. Rather than choke, he swallowed. A second time something was brought to his lips and a second time he swallowed. Meanwhile, the man was speaking, occasionally saying his name, and then Murtagh's head was put down.

Red flooded his field of vision, and hands grappled at the clothing over his chest. Murtagh attempted to fend them off, but his arms were stuck to the ground.

Black spots devoured the browns, reds, and silvers until darkness took him once again.

\-----

Bright sunlight blazed through bare tree branches and blinded Murtagh, and it took a moment for him to gather himself enough to turn away, blinking away white halos. Thorn sat on his knees beside his head and immediately held down on his chest to keep him from moving. It was fine since he had no intention of going anywhere. Pain radiated from his head all the way to his toes.

"Stay still," Thorn told him, and then he called out over his shoulder, "Murtagh is awake!"

Murtagh frowned at the trees over his head. They sparkled in the light as though made of crystal. Branches waved at him in a gentle breeze, and tiny flakes of snow rained down and landed on his face and eyelashes. He blinked them away and exhaled, a cloud of fog revealing his breath.

"How do you feel?" asked Selena, stepping into his line of sight. In her hands was a brown satchel, and she came near as she withdrew the spoon and bottle of medicine from the pouch. When all he could manage to do was look at her with slightly parted lips, she offered a half-hearted smile. "Do you remember last night?"

"Something of it," he acknowledged, though he was not certain what she was asking about.

Flinching as pain tore through him with every slight movement, he sat up. Beside him lay Eragon, fast asleep, and four different cloaks had been heaped over them and shared by them during the night: Murtagh's, Eragon's, Selena's, and Thorn's. Murtagh's dark leather jerkin had been removed and the threads of his black linen undershirt were unfastened. Both his undershirt and hair were damp and plastered to his skin.

"After Eragon stopped yelling, both of you fell asleep," Selena explained, and she gave him the medicine. He accepted it and drank two spoonfuls without question, wincing at the bitter taste. It burned on the way down. "Only a little while later, your fever rose abruptly. You woke up but were delirious."

"It was dangerous, Murtagh," Thorn growled, and his child-like features made his stern tone that much more pointed. Dark circles rimmed his eyes.

"Your excessive use of magic is wearing you too thin." Selena nodded at Thorn and then returned her attention to Murtagh, her eyebrows pinched tight and eyes narrow. She also had dark circles under her eyes. As she took the medicine and spoon from him and returned them to the satchel, her lips made a perfectly straight line. "Whatever control you had over the Lethrblaka—and whatever you did to save Eragon—are hurting you. You need to be mindful of your limitations."

"I am mindful, but given the circumstances, I have little choice." With some struggle he rose to his feet, and his legs nearly gave way beneath him. Thorn slipped under his hand and allowed him to lean on him. "However, I do appreciate the concern."

Steadying himself, Murtagh tied his undershirt to cover his exposed skin and stepped around Selena towards the river. Thorn followed. On the other side of the fire that still burned and staved off the cold, Brom sat on a log while cleaning a rabbit with a very noticeable arrow hole through it. The old man gave Murtagh a fleeting glance with his crisp blue eyes and then continued with his work.

"After you wash up," began Brom as Murtagh passed by, "come and have something warm to eat."

Murtagh paused, his lips parted, and then he continued on to the river while rubbing the back of his neck. Their concern was not undesirable, but it was foreign to him. Not only that, but it left him with insecurity gnawing in his gut. They were kind because they did not yet know who he was or what he had done—or who his father was.

Once at the river, Murtagh knelt and splashed several handfuls of water on his face and over his hair. It energized him and drew strength back into his body, woke him up, and so he dunked the top of his head. Flipping upright again, he combed his fingers through the tangled mess of his hair, wringing out excess water.

Thorn sat in the brown grass with a crunch, crossing his legs in front of him.

It was already late morning, but a layer of frost still covered the ground and trees in a mesmerizing glaze of white. Wispy curls of fog twirled across the sun and gave the sky an eerie glow. The river went on for a while in gentle waves and disappeared into a colorless void on the horizon.

"What happened with Eragon?" asked Thorn, grabbing his ankles. His eyes narrowed on Murtagh.

"I wish I knew." Murtagh rose and brushed off his knees. Despite the chill, his wet hair, and his lack of adequate clothing, his entire body burned. As the river water dried, sweat built on his skin. The medicine was making quick work of the fever. He stood next to Thorn and stared at the river. "I honestly have no idea how they are reaching him… only that they are trying to get to him before I can."

"Who are they?" Thorn asked, and he stood.

It was a good question. Once again, Murtagh prodded at the spirit asleep in his mind, and as always, it did not respond. He rubbed his neck and then dropped his arms to his sides. Medicine or not, the exhaustion returned quickly. "I don't know. I truly wish I had a better answer than that."

"They are spirits, all of them?" Thorn approached the river's edge and frowned at himself. Tugging on the tip of an unruly tuft of hair, he then attempted to comb it down. It bounced back immediately. Doing as Murtagh did, he took a handful of water and doused his hair, smoothing the stubborn strands. A second later, they curled up again, worse than before. Growling, he splashed away his reflection. "They were spirits that attacked the keep and spirits that attack the land now?"

"As far as I can tell," he answered. Crossing his arms, he leaned his weight to one side. "They don't communicate with me. I have no idea what they want."

Thorn stepped close and looked up at him. With a jarring, harsh expression on his youthful face, the child scrutinized Murtagh and then asked, "Why do you not tell Eragon that you were there during the attack?"

Murtagh groaned inwardly. Leave it to Thorn to call him out. Behind them, Eragon sat up from his long slumber and rubbed his eyes. He and Selena exchanged words, and then she wrapped him in her arms. Murtagh blinked and then looked away, watching the water dance over pebbles and stones.

"Because it was a mistake," he finally answered.

Thorn's expression was unreadable, his eyes glossy and his mouth open, and then he growled, his small hands making fists at his sides. "You do not truly believe that, do you?"

"I do," Murtagh responded, and he turned and started back. "And you know I am right."

Thorn did not respond and did not follow him. Murtagh left him standing at the river's edge and returned to the rest of their group.


	18. What the Moon Revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who takes the time to read, kudos, and comment~ I really appreciate it! I hope you will continue to enjoy this story~

Despite all of the happenings from the war, Ceunon was thriving. The city was alive with traders, merchants, storytellers, and music. Murtagh thought it a whimsical city, as if the humans and elves had thrown together their unique cultures and created this place. Humans lived here, but their songs were melodic, deep, and mournful: elvish. All of the buildings were made of wood and intricately designed with dragons. Shining on the west was the North Sea, and not far in the east lay the blood-red hills of Du Weldenvarden in autumn splendor. It was a beautiful city like something out of a painting.

Brom went ahead of them and took Sandstorm with him. "I will find us lodging for the night."

Selena perused a nearby merchant cart of wood trinkets and toys, and eventually Eragon joined her. Both took a fancy to a dragon carving that bore a resemblance to Saphira, and finally Eragon gushed like a small child to his mother about the dragon that he so deeply loved. Murtagh chuckled and rubbed the back of his head, wandering away down the street. As he always did, Thorn tagged along.

First on his agenda was finding a sword. As most large cities did, Ceunon had a blacksmith with various items ready to be sold. Murtagh purchased the best sword he could find, though it paled in comparison to Zar'roc, and fastened it to his belt. On their way back through town, he glanced and did a second take at a board affixed to a large building. Sliding backwards, he plucked a poster off it.

Eyes bright, he waved it at Thorn. "Look, Thorn! My value has gone up!"

Thorn took the poster and frowned at it. Murtagh's likeness was on the parchment. "For what reason?"

"For my increasing crimes against the Empire," Murtagh stated. His feigned excitement died and he threw his hands up in the air. "These posters must be everywhere by now."

"Then we will simply keep hiding them," replied Thorn, and he tucked the parchment into his vest for burning at a later time.

Murtagh sighed and dragged his feet along the stone walkway.

Across the city, they found the inn. As was typical, there was a tavern downstairs, and it was crowded. Tables were filled with people drinking and eating and making merry—one man was sprawled on the floor after having too much to drink. Murtagh did not envy him. A storyteller in flowing robes belted out tales of the golden age of the Riders, and beside him a stumpy man played a harp. At one of the tables sat Eragon, Selena, and Brom enjoying a meal of pottage and fresh bread, and Eragon was the first to notice him.

"You got a new sword?" he asked, and then his face darkened. Selective with his words, he asked, "What happened to the other?"

"I lost it," answered Murtagh without an ounce of hesitation or concern. His shoulders went up, came back down, and then he shoved Thorn up to the table. "Eat, small one." Thorn sat beside Eragon and received a bowl from Selena.

All at once, the music stopped. The harpist set his instrument aside and took out a new one, a long wind instrument that he pressed to his lips. It was something like a flute but was curved with a bulb on one end. The sound it made as he began to play was deep and mournful, like a melodic groan, and then the storyteller began to weave a tale of betrayal and destruction. He told of a Black Rider, strong and immortal, and his right hand, the Red Rider. No names were mentioned. Gradually all of the bustling in the tavern ceased, and even the men with glass-like eyes fixed their gazes on the entertainment.

"An unfortunate story," Brom muttered, sipping on beer. His entire demeanor shifted and his eyes were in a faraway place.

As the storyteller told his woeful tale, the audience muttered, and as the story reached its climax and the treacherous Riders met their end, all of the guests at the tavern shouted and raised their mugs.

Murtagh shifted. Not that he had much of an appetite to begin with, but now his stomach churned. He aimed for the stairs. "Do we have a room?"

"The first two," Brom told him, and he pushed the remainder of his meal away.

"You should eat." Eragon followed Murtagh with his eyes.

Murtagh waved his hand dismissively and went upstairs. Letting himself into one of the rooms, he closed the door and tried to close out all of the sounds downstairs. Wood doors were only so effective.

\-----

Even the wood panels on the ceiling of the inn held intricate patterns, as though the elves had sung the building into existence. Murtagh traced the unique curves and swirls in the panels with his eyes and wondered how a tree could grow to look like that on its own. Du Weldenvarden was home to the elves and likely any tree that came from the forest came with a touch of magic.

Murtagh stretched out on the floor with an arm folded under his head, and Thorn was sprawled over his chest, as was his usual sleeping arrangement, and served to keep him warm. He could see his breath as a puff of smoke in the air, and though it was not nearly as frigid as the area around Teirm had been, the nights were miserable. Murtagh's fever left him shivering constantly.

On the bed, Eragon slept without a sound and without moving, completely dead to the world.

All of the noise from the tavern had long since quieted, and Ceunon was still. Even so, Murtagh could not get his mind to stop racing. Thoughts of dark spirits and their intentions plagued his mind, and he struggled to piece together all of the information he had in order to understand their actions better.

An attack on the dragon keep and the Eldunarí suggested they sought power, but as far as he was aware they had failed. Now they wrought havoc on Alagaësia seemingly without purpose. Murtagh could not understand what they had to gain from the attack, why they sought Eragon who no longer had the strength of an elf or Rider, or why they had raised from the dead his father, his mother, or Brom. The missing piece of information was quite possibly the spirit asleep in his mind, and no matter what he did he could not make the being stir.

Fidgeting, Murtagh sat up and cradled Thorn in his arms. Upon being moved, the small child growled deep in his throat and then began to snore, and Murtagh could not help but laugh. Tenderly he stroked Thorn's face—his  _human_  face—which was strange enough as it was, but his love for his dragon had not changed. He lifted Thorn and carried him to the bed, setting him beside Eragon. In his sleep, the child crawled over Eragon and sprawled out before falling back into deep slumber. Murtagh adjusted the blankets to cover them both, laid Thorn's cloak over the blanket for added warmth, and then departed from the room.

Ceunon had become like an abandoned village. All of the people had vanished save a few guards patrolling the streets and an occasional drunk man with nowhere to go. This was the sort of place Murtagh felt most comfortable. No one to disturb him and no one to accuse him—it was quiet and safe.

Yet hair stood at the back of his neck. Scanning the streets for something out of the ordinary, his eyes eventually drifted upwards. On the roof of a tall building sat Selena, her knees bent with her arms folded over them, and she smiled down at him with a white gleam in her rich brown eyes. A pale halo rested on her head from the moonlight. With slight steps, he approached the building.

"What are you doing up there?" he asked, tipping his head.

"Watching," she answered, and then she pointed to the side of the building.

A wooden ladder was fixed to the outer wall from the ground all the way to the roof, and it was a permanent fixture. For what purpose it existed, Murtagh had no clue, but after taking a deep breath he dared to climb it. It was not the height that made his heart flutter, it was the company. His head started to hurt from his pounding heart before he even reached her side.

Once on the roof, he no longer questioned the purpose of the ladder or why Selena had settled there. The building was taller than most and overlooked much of the city. Beyond civilization lay the shining North Sea in all its glory and splendor, and it shone like a blanket of stars spread across the earth. The moonlight cast a brilliant beam upon its surface like a walkway that would lead to the heavens. Murtagh had to remind himself to breathe.

"Sit and keep me company for a while," she suggested, patting the space beside her. Then she folded her arms over her knees again and drew her legs close. Her breath puffed in front of her face and bumps spread across her exposed arms.

Murtagh removed his cloak and set it over her shoulders, and he did not even realize he was doing it until she blinked up at him. He left the cloak with her and retreated, and he hoped the pale moonlight stripped the color from his burning cheeks. Selena adjusted the cloak and pulled it around herself snuggly, and then she smiled and patted the roof again. Keeping several feet between them, he obliged and sat. Selena faced the water again, and her eyes reflected every last shining light.

"It feels like a dream," whispered Selena, her tone soft as the expression on her face. "All of this. When I think about how things are now, I have trouble sleeping."

Murtagh blinked at her and then stared at the water. He drew his knees to his chest and set his arms over them, mirroring her.

"I think that perhaps tomorrow I may cease to exist—that whatever forces deemed to give me life again will just as quickly claim me. Even if that were to happen, I am glad to be alive right now, in this dream." Stretching her arms out first, Selena then wrapped them around her legs and squeezed. "It puts the world in perspective."

Despite the breathtaking view, Murtagh's eyes fell to the streets below, for it suited him better. "You truly love Brom—and Eragon, of course… don't you?"

"More than anything," Selena answered, and she leaned forward and set her chin on her knees. Her eyelids fluttered. Never once did the warm smile leave her lips. "I never thought I would be with them like this. Eragon I lost when he was but a babe, and Brom and I were forced apart by our duties. To be here with them now as a family, traveling together, uniting for a common goal… That is the dream." She looked to him, sincere as could be. "My memories from before my death are vague, but I have no doubt that never in my life have I been happier than I am now."

His chest hurt and his eyes stung, but Murtagh managed a smile for her. It was not forced.

"Whatever happens tomorrow," she continued, "I am happy to be alive right now in this moment." Silence prevailed over them briefly, and then Selena turned to him again. "What about you, Murtagh? Do you have a beautiful woman waiting for you somewhere, or a family waiting for you to come home?"

"No." Murtagh swallowed a lump in his throat but managed another smile. "But I do have Thorn."

Selena looked back out at the water. Nothing about her was the same as he remembered. Her features were gentle and soft, unbroken, and the scars Morzan had caused her no longer remained. When she loved Brom, and when she loved Eragon, everything about her changed.

Murtagh shifted and lifted his eyes to the twinkling sea. With some struggle, he said, "If someone threatens your happiness, call for me. I will do everything in my power to protect it."

"That is kind," Selena answered in an exhale and with a chuckle. "But why would you do something like that for me? You barely know me."

"Happiness is rare and fleeting," he said. "And it is worth fighting for."

Her eyes landed on him again. "Even if it is not your own?"

The question took Murtagh by surprise. Years back he would have denied it, and his mentor Tornac would have scolded him for being a spoiled brat. But so little in his life brought him happiness, and he had spent so much of his time frantically trying to hold the few things that did. Even then, they always slipped away. He was selfish and spoiled, and justly he got what he deserved.

Yet now he saw beyond himself. He saw the parents in the desert weeping for their lost children. He heard sailors wail as their lives flashed before their eyes. He recognized the struggles of people who lost their homes to war, of Riders like Brom who lost their dragons, and of leaders like Nasuada who sacrificed daily for the people. Every last person in Alagaësia put him to shame.

He did not understand happiness well, but others did, and they deserved it. Eragon, Brom, Selena—especially Selena—deserved it. And so it was with a genuine smile that Murtagh met her eyes and nodded. "Especially if."

Selena laughed at him, sitting straight. "You must make a lot of pretty girls swoon."

Murtagh chuckled, but his face burned.

Together they sat in silence until both of them became numb. Even the drunk man on the street wandered away rubbing his arms and shaking. Murtagh considered returning to the inn but could not bring himself to leave her side. If his fever spiked or even killed him, oh well.

Yet as he pondered the implications of dying pathetically from a fever, the hair on the back of his neck stood again. He touched his skin and glanced around expecting another set of eyes to be staring at him. A sinking feeling settled in his gut, as though he was on the verge of losing a war he did not know he was fighting. His heart hammered in his chest, each throb deafening in his ears. Sliding down the roof, he searched the ground.

"Is something wrong?" Selena asked, and she unraveled herself.

"I don't know." His hand clasped his chest as each beat of his heart invoked stabbing pain, and sweat rolled down his face. Every breath was short and faint.

"You should be resting. Your fever—"

"No," Murtagh stated, and he looked around. Something was wrong.

Finally, his eyes landed on Selena and stopped there. It was ever so slight, and only the blazing moonlight revealed it. A fleck of her hair flitted away into the air like a mist. Bile rose to Murtagh's throat and made him cough, and then his eyes flicked from one side of the city to the other. Tiny pieces of shingled roofs floated away and disappeared.

"Get everyone out of the city," he panted, and then he slid to the edge of the roof. His hands and legs were shaking, and he nearly fell off without preparing himself for the drop.

"What? Why?" Selena followed him.

"Just trust me," he begged, and then he leapt to the ground. It was a long drop, but he bent his knees at the last moment to break his fall. Dirt and stone evaporated beneath him. Rising, he shouted, "Get everyone out of the city! Now!" Running down the street, he found the guards, or rather they found him.

"Had a bit too much to drink, eh?" asked one of the guards, and he was grinning until Murtagh grabbed the front of his armor and slammed him against the nearest building.

"Get everyone out! Everyone is going to die!" he yelled. The other guard grappled at his arms and tried to free his companion. Murtagh cursed, elbowed the guard in the face, spun on his heels, and shouted, " _Brisingr_!"

Flames erupted around the nearest building with a deafening boom. Somewhere within the city, people screamed. It was a flashy spell and nothing more, but the sights and sounds captured at least someone's attention.

"Murtagh!" Selena hopped off the roof and was surely about to scold him, and then she and the guards all stopped.

The fire Murtagh summoned to alert the city of danger unraveled and vanished in a black smoke. The building it had touched began to disappear along with it, and then so, too, did all of the buildings around it.

"Get everyone out!" Murtagh screamed at them, slamming the nearest guard against a wall and away from him. Running through the city, he kicked open doors and yelled into homes. Shortly behind him, Selena and the guards did the same.

Suddenly, all of Ceunon was alive. People scrambled throughout the city without understanding, but in all of the chaos and yelling, people moved first and would ask questions later. Whenever people seemed to doubt the danger, Murtagh shouted a spell and frightened them into action. Citizens dashed through the streets, crashing into each other and tipping stalls. One of the roofs ripped apart and floated away, and now everyone believed in the danger. Buildings groaned as walls and roofs fell apart, and the city shuddered under the chorus of its citizens' screams.

Murtagh broke into homes with doors closed up tight and searched for others. Behind him, Eragon, Selena, and Brom did the same. At least ten guards ran from door to door and searched for people left behind. All around them, civilians ran and screamed as homes came undone at the seams and disappeared like dust blown away on a breeze.

In one home, Murtagh found a woman cowering under a table with her two children. He kicked a chair out of the way, making all three of them scream, and then he grabbed the woman by her wrist and yanked her out. The two children scurried after her and clung to the hem of her chemise. He brought them to the door and stopped abruptly with them behind him. Their wails were drowned out by eerie silence.

At the far edge of the city near the docks, buildings crumbled, vibrant red leaves on trees melted like sludge and dripped to the ground, and dried grass withered. A massive paw like that of a dragon's arose, clawing its way out of dead earth, and a second paw quickly followed. Then arose the twisted shape of a creature with the face of a Lethrblaka and the torso of a man. Its body was made of creeping, liquid darkness, like a lake on the darkest night, and its eyes flashed white and flicked from one end of the city to the next. It opened its long and jagged beak and unleashed a wail so shrill that buildings crumbled and humans fell. Out of the earth came the rest of its body, like a serpent with two stubby and useless hind legs.

Now the buildings vanished rapidly, and the very roof over Murtagh's head began to disappear. He grabbed one of the children—and the woman grabbed the other—and started to run. The few people who remained raced after them, crying and stumbling. The ground tore up beneath them, and the whole lot of them fell. Murtagh shielded the child and rolled onto his back, facing the monster devouring the city.

"No!" he yelled at it, and then he attacked it with a fierce stab of his mind. It roared and thrashed against the ground, and then it lunged forward. Murtagh put the child on the ground and urged the remaining people back to their feet. "Get out of here! Run!"

Yet as they took off, one of the children, a little girl, staggered and hit the street. Her hair, her cheeks, her face turned to dust. She screamed and clawed at her skin, and her mother fell over her.

Murtagh clenched his teeth and trembled in rage, and he looked the monster straight in one eye. Fierce and unwavering, he declared, "I said, 'No!'" And then he attacked the creature's mind again and demanded it fall under his control.

At first he found only a void, but fury sharpened his mental blade and he stabbed through its defensive wall. He dug into its mind with precision, ripping through its thoughts, its memories, and anything else he could reach. In a matter of seconds he unraveled its existence. It had woven together magic greater than any human or elf could imagine, and Murtagh took hold of the spell it used to strip the land and abruptly set to work reversing it.

A daring feat that had cost many magicians their lives, but Murtagh did not relent. By his command, roofs and shingles fell back into place. Walls set themselves steady again. The little girl behind him was put back together, and she rose and escaped with the rest of her family and the few people who lingered. Grass sprouted and trees bloomed with crimson leaves. Murtagh reversed every bit of the magic, right down to the piece of his mother's hair that had been taken from her.

As he did, the monster stepped over him, a paw on either side, and held his stare. It opened its mouth and waved a curled tongue at him, and its throat went on forever. Its breath was like a cold wind.

"Murtagh!" Eragon stood at a distance and gasped for air.

Murtagh ignored him and held the monster at bay. He sifted through it for answers, and as he did, his own memories were yanked to the forefront of his mind. Suddenly he was in the throne room in Urû'baen, and Galbatorix stood over him and spoke excruciating words over him. Then again he was on the cold and damp floor of a dungeon, and his body was bleeding and bruised beyond recognition. Pain upon pain heaped on him as the memories all came at once, and Murtagh had no choice but to release the monster lest it overwhelm him.

"What are you?" he asked it, unable to blink or breathe

The dark spirit snarled into the night, and then it drained Ceunon of its very existence. Murtagh cut two fingers horizontally through the air, and a cage of light burst out of the ground and trapped the creature inside. It jumped and thrashed against the barriers he created, wailing as it touched walls that burned like fire.

"Tell me what you want!" Murtagh ordered, holding the barriers steady against its great strength. His heart throbbed, and sweat poured off him. Black closed in around his vision, but he resisted. "Tell me why you are doing this!"

Hissing and thrashing, the monster renewed its effort to destroy the city. Running out of strength and seeing no other options, Murtagh snapped his hand into a fist, and the walls of light around the dark spirit collapsed. It vanished in an explosion of dark slop that splattered the streets, and then every trace of it sizzled away like water on a hot day.

Murtagh swayed but managed to stay on his feet. He stared where the monster had been long after it had gone and a while after people returned to the city. Eragon approached but remained at a slight distance, as if wary of him. Armored footsteps banging on the stone street finally turned Murtagh's head. Ten guards, along with Thorn, Brom, and Selena approached. The guards had their hands on their swords, though Murtagh noticed this before anyone else.

"What is—" began Eragon, his brow pinched together.

"Murtagh," said the leader of the guard, and he exchanged looks with his men. A few shrugged and most had eyes that shifted from the ground to the sky. Then the leader drew his sword. "Murtagh Morzansson, by order of the queen, you are under arrest!"

Civilians gathered in a wide circle around them, and the muttering began at once. Hands covered mouths and shielded whispers.

Brom took a single step forward, his eyes wide but his face cold and hard. In a single exhale riddled with loathing, he said, "Morzansson." Selena started towards the guards as if to intervene, but Brom caught and held her.

Just like that, another sliver of happiness was stolen away.

"I can vouch for him," Eragon insisted, pushing past the guards and standing near Murtagh. "Murtagh, if we speak to Nasuada, we can—"

Murtagh put a hand on Eragon's chest and shoved him away. His brother stumbled and blinked at him, but he did nothing more. The guards shifted in concern, and several more drew their weapons. Many of them were shaking.

They were afraid of him.

Murtagh had no ill feelings towards these guards, towards Nasuada, or towards the Empire. However, he was running out of time and surrender was not an option. Hating every moment of it, he looked each guard in the eyes—or at least those that bothered to really see him—and then said, "I'm sorry."

With a single breath, he dropped all ten of them to the ground. People screamed and scattered. Murtagh met eyes with Eragon, and he found a familiar look of horror and disgust, like the first time Eragon had learned he was Morzan's son, and it cut deep.

With nothing to say, Murtagh turned and ran from the city.


	19. Flight into the Forest

Eragon frowned at the empty space where Murtagh had been and could not bring himself to move. Thorn scampered away almost immediately, and no one thought to stop him. It would have been futile anyway. Selena was the next to move, pushing herself away from Brom and dropping to her knees next to one of the guards. Her face was drawn, eyes narrow, as she checked for a pulse, and then she moved to several of the other men. Her lips were pressed into a thin line.

At long last, she exhaled and spoke to all people present. "They are alive, just unconscious!" Waving her hand at some men standing nearby, she ordered, "Take them somewhere warm and let them rest. They seem fine."

As she led the efforts to move the guards to shelter, Brom approached Eragon. He could not bring himself to meet his father's eyes, for he knew exactly what would be in those wise, chilling blue spheres.

"You knew," said Brom, and his tone was deep and low. Eragon focused on his father's hands, which were squeezed into fists. "You knew and did not tell me."

"It was not my secret to tell." Eragon met eyes with him, and it was a mistake. So much hurt and betrayal passed across his father's face that it broke his heart. His gaze dropped once again to the dirt.

"He is the son of Morzan." Brom's entire body shuddered at the mention of the name. "My enemy… the man who betrayed us all, who led us all to slaughter… he left a son to do the same."

"No!" Eragon's head snapped up again, shaking back and forth. "It is not like that." Even as he said the words, he heard his own doubt. Briefly, when Murtagh had uttered the words that brought the guards down, he assumed he had killed them.

Brom took hold of his face and forced him to look at him. Agony tinged every word. "How could you not tell me, Eragon?"

Eragon could not tell of the oath he had sworn to Murtagh, but it was not the only reason. Murtagh, just as anyone else, deserved the right to prove himself by deeds and not only by the name he bore. Fate always had different plans for him, though. Nevertheless, Eragon ached for his father and for the pain and suffering Morzan had caused him on a deep and personal level. He did not know how to stand on either side of this line without causing harm to the other.

"I am sorry," he whispered, and heat built behind his eyes. Again he said, "It was not my secret to tell."

Brom stared hard at him and then released him. His father stepped aside and paced, rubbing his beard and then his wrinkled face. In a blink he appeared to age twenty years. Selena returned to them shortly after all of the guards had been carried away and most of the people went into their homes. The first light of dawn crept into the sky.

"We should return to the inn and rest," Selena suggested, and she placed a hand on Eragon's shoulder. He appreciated the warmth and the support, for suddenly his knees were weak. "Nothing changes. We need to press on to Ellesméra and discuss these matters with the elves."

"That boy will be there," Brom stated, and hatred curled off his tongue.

"I hope so," Selena replied. She folded her arms and tapped a foot on the ground. "Murtagh has been fighting against these things since we first joined with him. He is more aware of the circumstances than any of us."

"He ran because he is guilty." Brom turned on her and stood tall, and Eragon shivered.

"He ran because he has a task to finish," Selena countered, and her head was raised high. "He did not hurt those men, and he saved everyone in this city."

"He is Morzan's son!"

"I know!" Selena stomped her foot on the ground, dropped her arms to her sides, and exhaled sharply. All of the tension melted out of her as she rubbed her brow and lowered her voice. Her fingers tugged at the cloak on her shoulders. It was not hers. "We can address the situation later. For now, let us return to the inn and rest." With that, she left them behind.

Eragon loosened the collar of his tunic, as it was particularly tight, and then he faced his father again. Brom's anger melted into sorrow as countless painful memories were forced back into his mind, and now Eragon understood. He understood why Murtagh did not share his secret and why he did not tell their mother his true identity. Even the mention of Morzan crippled people and unburied horrific memories. Murtagh always brought along with him Morzan, and it ruined people.

"Do you trust him?" Brom asked.

No. Eragon tried, but even he could not trust someone who shared Morzan's blood. Not only so, but Murtagh had bent to Galbatorix's will and killed countless innocent people in his name. Whether Murtagh was under the influence of magic or not was irrelevant at that point, for if he had been strong enough, compassionate enough, he would have died instead of submitting. Yet at that thought, Eragon shuddered. From the time they fled to Farthen Dûr to present, Murtagh's only options ever seemed to be persecution or death.

"I want to," Eragon finally told Brom, refusing to lie but refusing to accept that he could not trust Murtagh. Despite their bumpy course together, the other Rider had been an asset whenever possible.

Brom's eyebrows sank, and his eyes stormed in rage. It was not an adequate answer for someone who had been hurt by Morzan as he had. Terrifyingly quiet, he said, "That is not good enough." Then he went back to the inn.

Eragon's shoulder sank. No, it probably was not, but it was all he had in him. Then his eyes searched the city one last time. Every roof, every shingle, every blade of grass had been returned to its proper place. No one had suffered harm when in fact the entire city could have disappeared like a mist—like Narda. Though he understood, it did not sit right with him that Murtagh's reward for saving the city was arrest.

Dragging his feet, he returned to the inn.

\-----

Eragon remembered to take Sandstorm along as they departed Ceunon. It was strange to have Murtagh's horse and not to have Thorn in the saddle. Selena walked alongside Eragon as they crossed the withered and crunchy plain toward Du Weldenvarden. Their conversations were brief, but his mother harbored no ill feelings towards him for keeping a secret from them. It was his father Eragon worried about.

Brom led their charge towards the forest, and he was quiet the whole way, his shoulders raised, his hand squeezing his wood staff so tightly that his knuckles were white. Eragon was hoping his anger would abate by the time they reached Ellesméra. He already knew Murtagh would put up a fight, and he did not particularly want to see Brom and Murtagh having words—or worse.

Unfortunately, time was not what Brom was given.

As they passed into a sea of red, the leaves of Du Weldenvarden cast crimson shadows on the forest floor. Murtagh was waiting for them there. At least, Eragon thought he had been waiting. The other Rider was sitting against a tree until they approached, and then he pressed a hand against the trunk and used it to draw himself to his feet. His legs shook beneath him. Thorn jumped the moment they arrived and ran to the horse, digging in a saddlebag for the satchel of medicine. He returned to Murtagh with it and fumbled to get the bottle out.

Selena stopped, her shoulders low and expression solemn. In a gentle voice, she asked, "Are you all right, Murtagh?"

It was obvious he was not. Murtagh's dark brown hair was disheveled and decorated with dirt and leaves, as though he had spent some time on the ground. His face was pale like someone who had been bleeding for hours, and his ghostly complexion accentuated the dark circles under his gray eyes. His hand never left the tree, and his legs never stopped shaking. Every breath caused his eye to twitch, like he was resisting a flinch, and after a while of apparently trying to appear stronger than he was, he began to wheeze. Thorn forced the bottle into his hand, for Murtagh stubbornly resisted it, and then he took a dose of his medicine.

Murtagh was not wearing his cloak, and that was when Eragon realized Selena had been wearing it and it was now strewn over the horse. He raised an eyebrow.

Brom stood aside and allowed Murtagh to take medicine, and then he approached. Eragon went rigid. Too soon! Brom was rightfully angry, and Murtagh was a feverish and prideful mess. It was a dangerous combination. Even Thorn stepped back, tucking away the medicine and pressing the satchel to his chest. Selena's shoulders rose, but she sealed her lips and waited.

"Do you know who I am?" Brom asked, though it was a rhetorical question. Murtagh swallowed hard and tried to stand straight, but his body simply would not allow it. Instead he held the tree and shot Brom a sidelong glance. When he did not answer, Brom continued, "I thought there was something familiar about you, but I could not place it." His tone dropped to chilling new levels as he added, "I would have appreciated your candor."

"I am not my father." Every single one of Murtagh's words trembled, and as he spoke his voice lost strength.

"His blood runs through your veins," Brom insisted. "You are a part of him whether you think it or not."

Eragon shook. Brom spoke as if to Morzan himself, and the hatred was so strong and real that one could only imagine the suffering he had faced at Morzan's hands. Yet Murtagh did not respond as Eragon expected. He did not fight, he did not yell, he did not defend himself or insist himself a victim. He blinked, and his shoulders fell along with his eyes.

"I may have his blood, but I have my own mind," Murtagh answered without looking up.

"If that is so," pressed Brom, "then allow me to see your thoughts and memories. That is, if you have nothing to hide."

Selena shifted, folding her arms across her chest. Her brow furrowed as she watched the exchange. Likewise, Eragon frowned at the request. He took one step forward and began, "That is not necessary—" but Brom held up a hand to silence him.

Once again, Eragon expected the other to rage, to vent how unfair fate had been to him and how he hated his father more than anyone else.

Instead, Murtagh's entire body sank further. "Why is my loyalty in question now?" he asked, his voice flat.

"Because that man was a monster." Brom did not hesitate to say so, and his eyes blazed with passionate hatred. "He betrayed us and led us all to be killed... My friends, my dragon…" Agony in his voice, he said, "Surely you must understand!"

"I am not him," Murtagh insisted, and his voice cracked.

"Then prove it." Brom stepped towards him. "Allow me into your mind. I will determine if what you say is true or not."

Murtagh shook his head, and his eyes searched anywhere and everywhere, and then he faced Brom. It was weak, but he said, "No."

"Then you are hiding something," Brom declared, his bushy eyebrows pinched together. His face wrinkled in a frightful way.

"No," started Murtagh, and then he shook his head again and scowled at the ground. Tears shone in his eyes. "Yes. Everything. I, too, have things I do not wish for others to know."

"As a child of the Forsworn, it is not within your rights." Brom took one step closer, pressing the tip of his staff into the ground with finality. "If you want to earn trust, you will have to do more than anyone else."

Leaning with his shoulder against the tree, Murtagh stared into the distant shadows of the forest. It was the first time Eragon saw in him something completely  _broken._  Not by the cruelty of Morzan or Galbatorix but by the cruelty of a world that treated him nearly quite as bad. Eragon was waiting for and expecting Murtagh to lash out, but he did not. There was no fight left in him.

Murtagh pulled himself off the tree and managed to stand, and he met eyes with Brom. There was no defiance, but his voice was steady as he said, "I refuse." Then he turned away, giving his attention to Eragon and Selena. "Thank you for bringing Sandstorm." Without another word, he turned and led the way through the forest. His steps were heavy, but he pushed himself and garbed himself in feigned strength.

"That could have gone better," Selena mused.

"It also could have gone much worse." Eragon scratched his head, then took hold of Sandstorm's reigns and led the horse forward.

Thorn remained where he was and gave Murtagh space. Eragon felt strange doing it knowing he was a dragon, but the child's pouty expression invited it: he ruffled Thorn's unruly ruby hair. The boy blinked at him with enormous eyes, and then he frantically tried to smooth his hair down. It flew in every direction despite his best efforts.

"Is he all right?" Eragon asked him quietly so that the others did not hear.

Thorn raised and dropped his shoulders quickly, and his eyes fell. "I am not bound to him anymore, and he does not speak to me like he used to."

"What happened to him?" Eragon paused, and Thorn blinked at him without understanding the question. "Something changed before he found me… and how did you end up like this?"

Thorn turned on his feet and took one small step forward. Glancing over his shoulder at Eragon, he said, "You should ask  _him_  those questions."

Eragon smirked, but truthfully he was rather sad. "I would if I thought he would give me a straight answer."

Thorn shrugged and then moved on ahead. Selena lingered near Brom, and Eragon waited to see if they would follow or decide to leave. A great internal battle was being waged in Brom's mind until finally he looked up and met eyes with Eragon. His father was worn from the emotional assault, but the anger trickled out of him and his hands finally unclenched. He certainly had not made peace with Murtagh, but at least for now he would give him the benefit of the doubt.

It was a start.

\-----

For the next several days, they ventured the forest in perpetual silence. A chorus of birds and insects filled the void with a melodic harmony, and the leaves over their heads rustled in soft breezes. Every now and again, bright red leaves would dance through the air and line the ground, creating for them a royal crimson walkway all the way to the elven capital.

Tension gradually faded. Brom stopped carrying his staff as if he intended to hit someone with it, and Murtagh stopped walking a mile ahead of them at all times. Brom would carry on a conversation with Selena on occasion, though his conversations with Eragon were short and to the point.

Murtagh spoke with no one, not even Thorn. For the most part he avoided them, though when they built camp he would wander back with a rabbit or two to share with them. The first time Murtagh came back with something to eat, everyone was surprised. The second time, Selena hid a wide smile behind her hand. Neither time was Brom impressed.

During their days of uncomfortable silence, Thorn had learned how to hum as a human. At first it was quiet, and then the redhead got louder, more confident. Several times Murtagh turned around and told him they could hear him and to be quiet. Thorn stopped for no more than a mile and then started right up again. Selena joined him in a melody and Murtagh gave up.

It was late in the afternoon one day when a shadow passed across the sun. Eragon tipped his head back and shielded his eyes from the blinding rays of light that pierced the crimson ceiling. It was a fleeting shadow, like a tiny bird, and so he kept moving forward without giving it much thought.

A second shadow passed, and this one lingered longer than the first. Eragon stopped and lifted his eyes. When the third shadow passed, everyone froze.

"What was that?" Eragon wondered aloud, his back tense.

Then it whizzed by over the tops of the trees, shaking the forest and sending a shower of leaves twirling to the ground. Its black, leathery wings were unmistakable. Then a second followed, and a third. Their wings thumped against the air like the beat of drums. Overhead and beyond the trees, near and far, the sky was swarming with Lethrblaka.

Eragon set his hand on his side but was reminded quickly that he did not have a sword. Without Saphira, a sword, or magic, there was little he could do.

"There are so many," whispered Selena. She, like everyone else, had been holding her breath.

"It is possible they have not noticed us." Brom started forward again, though his steps were slight and quiet. "Keep moving. We are close to Ellesméra now."

Together they moved forward like creeping predators, but unfortunately, they were the prey. Selena guided Sandstorm until Murtagh fell back and lifted Thorn into the saddle. Even the horse took smaller steps, snorting and tipping its head, ever wary of the shadows in the sky.

They carried on in silence. Dark splotches increased in the sky and blotted out the sun. Eragon caught a flash of black out of the corner of his eye.

"Get down!" he screamed, and then he fell.

A Lethrblaka rolled over the branches of the trees, ripping apart the canopy sheltering them. Leaves and splinters rained down over them in a dizzying display of red and gold. The monster slid to a halt and whirled its tail in a wide arc, demolishing what remained of the trees around it. Then it screeched into the heavens.

As the Lethrblaka belted out its piercing cry, Murtagh slipped beneath it and thrust his sword in the joint of its neck. It jerked its head like a whip and knocked him aside.

In the meantime, Eragon jumped and called to the rest, "Run! Ellesméra has to be close! We have to reach the wards around the city!"

Sandstorm had vanished in the chaos, having knocked Thorn off in the process. The child rose from the ground and ran past the Lethrblaka. Eragon waited for Selena and Brom to pass and then he went after. The sky was alive with the screams of the Lethrblaka, and several more swooped down in a rush of wind and beating wings.

They lost the first Lethrblaka, but three more folded their wings and crashed through the branches over their heads. Thick and ancient trees snapped like twigs under their weight. Eragon turned another way and was met by a fourth Lethrblaka. The nasty creatures spread their wings like a wide net and closed in around them. A fifth hit the ground behind them, sealing them in a tight circle.

Overhead, the sky was darkened by the Lethrblaka as if by clouds thick with rain.

"There must be a hundred of them," Selena breathed, and she pressed her back to Eragon. One hand she kept on his sleeve and the other on Brom's.

One of the Lethrblaka snapped its beak at them and another hissed, its tongue wagging, but none of them moved.

Murtagh held his sword tight, scanning the creatures around them. He touched his shoulder to Eragon while squeezing Thorn between them. "Thorn can tell the elves everything. Get him there alive."

"You sound like you're not coming with us," Eragon growled.

"I can't defeat a single Lethrblaka," said the other with a lopsided grin. "I have no false sense of hope that I can defeat five or more."

"Why are they not attacking?" Selena drew a dagger from her belt, holding it at the ready. Eragon set his gaze on Murtagh whose eyes were narrow, focused. Somehow he was holding them back.

"Run," Murtagh told them. "Get to the city. I will do what I can to stop them."

"I will not leave you." Thorn snarled in a pathetic way and clung to Murtagh's sleeves. In return, Murtagh grabbed him by the back of his shirt, lifted him, and thrust him upon Eragon, who held him fast in both arms. "Murtagh!"

"When I clear an opening, run!"

Murtagh lost his grip on one of the Lethrblaka, and it jerked forward and snapped its beak at them. Murtagh threw his sword and spun the blade in the air with words of magic and strength of mind, and then the weapon hurled through the Lethrblaka's right eye and out the left. With a powerful spell, he flung the wounded Lethrblaka through the air into two of its companions, casting them into a heap.

"Go!" he yelled at them.

Eragon kept a tight grip on Thorn as he took off running, and Selena kept her dagger in one hand and held his tunic with the other. Brom followed them, pausing once to glance behind them, and then together they ran. Trees exploded in their wake. Lethrblaka soared over their heads to attack them but were suddenly swept away by a torrent of wind created by magic. When others took their place, trees ripped out of the soil like bushy spears that pierced leathery wings and knocked the creatures out of the sky. Mere annoyances at best, but it kept them safe.

If not for Thorn, Eragon would have turned back for Murtagh. But as every situation they were in got worse, he knew just how important it was for Thorn—or Murtagh—to make it to the elves alive. He did not know why, but he would see it accomplished one way or another.

Then a Lethrblaka crashed in front of them, tipping trees. Eragon slipped and nearly stumbled into its gaping beak. Selena dove and kicked the creature's face, blocking it from harming him, and then she thrust her dagger into its eye. The Lethrblaka yelped and thrashed its head, knocking her to the ground, and then it took a step forward with its clawed paw to crush her.

Magic swept it off the ground and high into the air. Somehow, Murtagh was not far behind them.

"Go!" Brom yelled, hauling Selena to her feet, and then they ran again. "We are almost there!"

A curtain of fiery orange vines filled with thorns blocked their path, and Selena cast a spell of flames over it to clear it. Eragon jumped, and Brom and Selena followed. So too did a roaring Lethrblaka. The ground gave way beneath them and they tumbled down a steep hill. Red and black swirled in every direction. The Lethrblaka snapped at them in the chaos but caught nothing, and then suddenly it stopped while they kept rolling.

Eragon hit a tree with enough force to take the wind out of him. Thinking only of the danger and where the others might have been, he clasped Thorn tightly and rose. Everything was spinning. It was darker in this place, and the trees stood taller than before. Somehow it was quiet of all sounds, Lethrblaka, birds, and insects alike. Lights like fireflies flitted through the air and left shimmering trails behind them.

Near the hill from where they had fallen, Selena and then Brom managed to rise. Both were covered in dirt and dried leaves with a few scratches on their faces and arms but neither mortally wounded. Thorn was just the same, and Eragon finally set him down when it seemed nothing pursued them.

Sliding down the hill was Murtagh. He was drenched in sweat, overworked by magic, and he was covered from top to bottom in dark soil. More than a few times had he been put to the ground, but he too had escaped without mortal injury. When he reached the bottom of the hill, he stumbled into a tree and held it to remain standing. He had his sword in hand, ready for the next attack.

Ahead of them, the shadows began to shift. Eragon gripped Thorn's arm just in case.

An elf armed with a bow and arrows stepped out from behind a tree. After inspecting Eragon and the others, he tipped back his head. By his nonverbal command, many other elves appeared from out of the darkness, all armed and ready.

Then she appeared, and Eragon's heart skipped a beat.

Arya stepped out of the darkness in a decorated tunic fit for a queen, for that is what she was. The garments shimmered with gold as she moved, brighter and more beautiful than the flitting lights around them, and the crystal circlet on her brow shone even in the darkness. Her long black hair was tied in a braid over her shoulder, framing her face. Her green eyes met his.

"We were waiting for you, Eragon," she said, her voice calm and steady like a gentle river. "Welcome back."


	20. Banished

**Chapter 19**

Eragon blamed the Lethrblaka for their lack of attention. As Arya approached, at least two dozen other elves stepped out of hiding, armed with bows and arrows, swords, and magic. It was both fascinating yet terrifying that they had been so heavily outnumbered and ambushed without realizing.

"Are you well?" Arya asked, her eyes shifting from Eragon to the others.

"We—" started Eragon until a hand squeezed his shoulder and shoved him backwards.

Murtagh stumbled forward, twigs cracking beneath his feet. "Skip the pleasantries," he growled. "We have more important matters to discuss."

At his tone, at his presence, the elves tightened their grips on their weapons. Eyes narrowed and lips pressed into thin lines. While her armed guard stood at the ready, Arya faced Murtagh with the same calm demeanor as before, her features unmarred by hate or fear. Brom straightened behind them and exhaled through his nose and was on the verge of speaking out, but Selena pressed a hand to his chest and silenced him.

"You know as well as I do that we are running out of time," Murtagh said to Arya. Even then, he struggled to stay on his feet, but his stubbornness was second to none.

A few of the elves stepped closer to Arya as though to protect her, but no one spoke without her consent. When one elf came too near, she raised a hand and stopped him. "I had heard of a magic user traveling Alagaësia and spreading rumors of spirits," she began, and Murtagh's eyes went wide. "Even I was surprised to learn it was you."

"Then you…" Murtagh's tongue was tied, and all he could do was blink at her.

"Jeod followed your advice and sought council with Nasuada. All of us have been seeking to understand our enemy on account of his report." Arya folded her hands in front of her, very much looking the part of a royal queen, and said, "As a direct result of your warning, we have come to know much. Tell us what more you know."

At the mention of his old friend's name, Brom gripped his staff with both hands, leaning his weight on it.

Murtagh struggled to swallow and wavered on his feet, but Thorn leaned against his side and bore some of his weight. In neither a respectful nor spiteful tone, he declared, "Our world is dying." A few elves arched their shoulders, but for the most part, no one was surprised. Arya did not even blink. "Spirits are draining Alagaësia of life and doing to the land and to the people everything you see here," he said, and he waved at the withering trees. "They are using some sort of magic unlike anything we have seen—something without words but with great power… as if the heart and true nature of magic itself."

"How do you know this?" Arya's tone did not change. Disbelief did not taint her words, only a desire for knowledge.

Her response, her belief, put him at ease, and Murtagh leaned more on Thorn and spent less of his energy trying to stand tall. "Because I attacked the mind of one of the spirits, and I saw the magic it was using to destroy Ceunon and its people."

"You undid its spell," Eragon pointed out, and his mouth hung open. If what Murtagh said was true and the spirits used magic without the ancient language, it should have been impossible for anyone to undo it. Reversing a spell even  _with_ words was nearly impossible. Using the Name of Names, the name of the ancient language, might make it possible, and so he asked, "Did you use…"

"No." Murtagh shook his head abruptly, met eyes with Eragon, and then returned his attention to Arya. "They use no words, nothing of the sort. Everything I have done to combat them has been in mind only, and even then I am limited in what I have been able to do."

"Spirits manipulate magic in ways we do not understand. That is what makes them so powerful and dangerous," Arya concluded, and her thin brows knit together as she cast her gaze to the ground. "Spirits have lived in harmony with us for ages, troubling us only when we first trouble them. Why is this happening now?"

"I don't know, but I do know that the spirits are hunting for things that hold a great deal of power." Murtagh glanced over his shoulder at Eragon. "They attacked the dragons, the Eldunarí, Eragon… and now they attack towns and drain every last bit of life they can from them. The magic I countered in Ceunon, the spirit was stealing the people's lives, their bodies, everything that holds the physical world together."

Eragon stared at Murtagh, the corners of his lips curling down. His frown made the other look away from him. Instead of being ignored, he took a long step forward until he was shoulder to shoulder with Murtagh. "How do you know about all of this? You knew that I was attacked, and you are certain Saphira and the others are alive—how?"

Tugging at the top clasp of his jerkin, Murtagh shifted his weight. Finally he let go of Thorn and stood on his own. Closing his eyes, he admitted, "Aside from what I witnessed myself, everything I know I learned from the spirit in my head."

Eragon exhaled sharply, as did Brom. Thorn's jaw dropped. A few of the elves stared with wide eyes but managed to maintain their composure.

Arya raised her eyebrows and parted her lips in passing. "You are a sorcerer."

At this, Murtagh chuckled and rubbed the back of his head. "Not quite." Hooking his thumbs on his belt, he leaned his weight casually on one leg. Now he spoke and carried himself not with urgency but as if it was an ordinary, everyday conversation. "Thorn sensed a shift in the world's magic, so we returned to investigate. I met with a spirit who shared with me many things I could not understand, and then it gave me access to its powers if I agreed to stop the other spirits from destroying Alagaësia. I preferred not dying, so I agreed." Tapping his temple, he added, "When I fought with the first spirit, I lost—and the spirit in my head has said nothing since, even though I have access to its powers."

A few of the elves shifted, and Arya tipped her head in their direction. From their faces that twitched now and again, it was clear they were having a mental dialogue. Finally, Arya met eyes with Murtagh. "And you are certain of all of this?"

"I have not a single doubt," he assured her.

"Then we are in grave danger." Arya bowed her head, her soft features twisting into a frown. "Anyone who has faced a Shade—or who has become a Shade—knows precisely how dangerous spirits are."

"But Murtagh was able to control the spirit in Ceunon," Eragon said, and his words caused Murtagh to fidget with the buckle on his jerkin again. "And he was able to destroy it."

"How?" questioned Arya.

"I don't know." Again Murtagh rubbed the back of his head, and then his shoulders sank. "Just as I don't know how I reversed the magic in Ceunon. It was just something I… did. It felt the right thing to do and came as naturally as breathing."

Arya stood in silence for a moment, and then her attention shifted from Murtagh to Eragon. "Saphira and the others—are they safe?" It was something Eragon often wondered after waking in Alagaësia, and all he could do was look to Murtagh for the answer.

In turn, Murtagh glanced at Thorn and then said, "As far as we are aware, the spirits did not harm any of the dragons. Magic protects them now, but I would expect the spirits to attack again. There is a lot of power waiting for them there."

"Then rescuing them is our priority." Arya faced her people, her eyes sharp and fierce. "Begin preparations. I will go personally and see that the dragons are safe." At her command, several of the elves disappeared into the trees. She turned again, her green eyes finding Eragon and staying on him. "We leave at dawn. For Saphira and for the others."

Eragon shivered at the thought of reuniting with Saphira, and then he nodded and attempted a smile. Suddenly his entire body sank. All of the tension from their battles and flights took their toll. It was a little harder to keep up as a human, and thinking as much made him glance back at his parents. Brom and Selena had shadows under their eyes and barely kept on their feet.

"Tonight you will rest," Arya said, searching them each again. "You are safe now, and you should sleep well in that confidence."

Eragon tipped his head and took a step forward, ready to return to his home away from home in Ellesméra. Brom and Selena followed without question, but Murtagh did not move and neither did Arya or the remaining elves. Eerie silence passed over them in the darkness of the forest, with not even the whisper of wind to disturb the peace, and then Arya set her eyes upon Murtagh without condemnation, joy, or sorrow.

"I cannot permit you to enter Ellesméra." Her expression remained unreadable, and to Eragon's surprise, so did Murtagh's. Her voice then wavered as if recounting a bad memory. "It is still too soon and the wounds too fresh."

"I understand," Murtagh responded with a nod.

It was because Murtagh expected this that he rushed to tell Arya of everything he knew. Even though he was a Dragon Rider, even though a dragon stood at his side, he had known they would not accept him.

"I do have one request, if you will hear it," continued Murtagh, and now his hard features softened. Arya tipped her head. With her permission, he set his hands on Thorn's shoulders and pushed the child forward, presenting him to the elves. "Please permit Thorn to enter."

"W-what?" Thorn's head whipped around in a split second, his eyes enormous. He fumbled for Murtagh's jerkin and held fast to it.

Arya stared at the child with thin lips slightly parted, and the elves exchanged looks. No one knew the dragon had become a human. She glanced back at her people, and then she met eyes with Murtagh. "Very well. I will grant your request."

"I will not leave you again!" Thorn shook himself out of Murtagh's hands, his face contorted. His mouth gaped and bared his teeth. "I refuse! I will—"

"Thorn!" Murtagh knelt and snatched hold of the child's shoulders again, giving him a shake. It was slight, especially in the faint light of the thick forest, but Murtagh's eyes shone. "I will be fine on my own, and more than anything, I need peace of mind. You can give that to me by eating well, resting well, and staying safe. I will have difficulty tending to the both of us. Understand?"

Thorn stared at him hard, his eyes sharp—like a dragon's—and then his head bowed ever so slightly. He dipped his shoulders out of Murtagh's hands and then took a step backwards, aligning himself with Arya.

Murtagh managed a smile and rose, finding Arya again. "Thank you."

Eragon felt a sting in his chest for them, for he knew well enough how difficult it was to be separated from his partner. It left a gaping hole that could not be filled. As he watched their exchange, another thought struck him and settled in the back of his mind. Consistently Murtagh was putting everyone before himself.

Arya's tone was soft as she said to Murtagh, "Stay near the city and our wards will protect you."

"I will be fine, but thank you," Murtagh answered. With a nod to Arya and one last look at Thorn, he turned and departed into the quiet shadows.

Most of the elves continued on towards the capital, their footsteps like murmurs across the ground, and Brom and Selena followed. Eragon lingered, staring into the darkness that had stolen Murtagh. Arya approached and placed a warm hand on his arm, meeting eyes first with him and then Thorn.

"I have assigned a few of my people to keep watch over him," she assured them. "He will be safe."

"Thank you," Eragon said, and it surprised him how much he meant it. After everything that happened recently, he did not want Murtagh's exile to cause him any more harm.

Side by side, Eragon and Arya followed the rest of the group. Thorn alone refused to move and drew their attention back. An elf paused and called out, " _Blödhskular_ , please come. We will prepare a place for you."

Thorn turned on the elf abruptly, his eyes ablaze with fire. If not for being a child of no more than six, the expression would have been frightful. His voice wobbled as he answered, "Do not treat me with kindness if you cannot show my Rider the same courtesy." Then, he stormed ahead of them all, refusing to have anything to do with them.

Eragon froze when Brom stopped and watched the boy disappear, and he recoiled when his father's eyes fell upon him. "Rider?"

Arya paused at Eragon's side, and Selena stopped beside Brom. The two pairs exchanged looks, and then Eragon turned his lips close to Arya's ear and whispered, "Please tell him." If he could not give Murtagh's secret, he would find someone who could.

Arya understood his intentions without him saying more. She told Brom, "Thorn is a dragon and Murtagh his Rider."

"Rider!" exclaimed Brom, and he clapped a hand over his mouth. To him, it must have seemed a cruel twist that Morzan's son became a Rider like his father before him. It should have been a thing of honor, but in Murtagh's case, it branded him again as following in his father's footsteps. Stunned into silence, Brom turned and kept walking. Selena pressed a hand against his back and joined him.

When the rest of the group had moved on, Arya faced Eragon. "He did not know."

"There is a lot he does not know." Eragon looked into her eyes—full of wisdom and understanding. "For now, let us keep it that way. I will explain everything later."

She did not question his motives but simply nodded, and Eragon appreciated that. He smiled, and she did as well. It had been a long year and an even longer past few weeks, but once again, he felt things could be made right. With the hope that the next few days would reunite him with Saphira, Eragon joined Arya and entered the elven capital, Ellesméra.


	21. Faelnirv

Ellesméra had changed little in the time Eragon was away. Enormous trees weaved themselves into elven dwellings, and elf and nature coexisted in perfect harmony. A great feast was prepared to celebrate the return of Eragon—and also Brom—and the entire capital filled with ancient song. The elves told tales with their music, and no matter if the song was mournful or merry, it stirred in Eragon a sense of peace that would not depart.

The faelnirv probably helped.

Nearly everyone in the city had gathered together in a wide open area, and the roots of enormous trees reached out of the soil and created for them tables on which their food sat. In the center of the area were elves who sang in perfect unison stories of times long past. They had no need of instruments, for anything else would have detracted from the music's beauty.

Eragon sat near Brom and Selena. Arya was not far from them and was at an angle which allowed him to look at her from time to time. In the flurry of activity that followed their entrance to the city, he had not had an opportunity to speak with her in private. For now, he was content to eat, drink, and rest.

Brom drank his liquor and started brooding about recent events, his head down and his fingers tapping along the bark of the tree. He had learned of Oromis and Glaedr's deaths during the war, but no one—possibly by order of Arya—divulged Murtagh's part in it. Nevertheless, Brom was in a foul mood.

Beside him, Selena drank a great deal and became loud and energized. For a while she chattered with Brom who, for the most part, avoided her gaze, and then she leaned backwards and tried to strike up a conversation with Eragon instead. Finally his mother changed seats and sat directly beside him, and as she spoke, she fixed a curl of his hair that was out of place.

Eragon melted.

For most of his life, he only had memories of living with Garrow and Roran. His aunt Marian had passed early on. A mother's love and touch were not familiar to him, and every time Selena went out of her way to touch his back, squeeze his shoulder, or show affection in any other way, it filled him with warmth. Her hands were always kind and supportive, always lending strength, and he wondered how he went through most of his life without it. It was clear immediately that she loved him more than anything in the world, and whenever he stopped to really think about it, tears came to his eyes. It was a powerful thing, a parent's love.

As his mother waved her hand for another drink and Brom suggested she stop, Eragon noticed Thorn scowling at his untouched meal. The child sat apart from them, though not far, and refused to acknowledge anyone. On several occasions, when the words of a song became particularly somber, he would bite his lower lip and rub his eyes. It was during one such song that Eragon slipped out of his place and went to join him.

"Your empty belly will do Murtagh no good," Eragon said, sitting in a seat beside him.

Thorn did not move away from him as he did with anyone else, but the child cast his eyes away and to the ground. "I will not gorge myself while my Rider sits outside hungry."

Eragon blinked at the tray of food in front of Thorn, the berries and vegetables a colorful and artful display. The child had even refused water. Eragon doubted Murtagh was as poor off as he thought, but a rabbit was not quite a feast like this. Nevertheless, he said, "Murtagh wanted you to recover your strength. It would hurt him if he saw you like this."

A familiar blaze erupted in Thorn's eyes, and his hands squeezed into white fists upon his thighs. His words were sharp as knives. "Do not act as though you know how he feels."

With a sigh, Eragon sat straight and held his tongue. Selena slid off her perch and staggered from drink. Completely ignoring the fact that Thorn was a dragon of ancient wisdom and power, she clapped a hand on each of his cheeks and squeezed his face until his lips puckered. Eragon and Brom stared with wide eyes, and many of the elves who were eating and singing stopped what they were doing. Arya's lips curled into a smile, but she abruptly concealed it behind her drink. Meanwhile, Thorn lost every ounce of hostility in him and sat with his jaw hanging.

"Would it make you feel better," began Selena, and she released him, "if I brought Murtagh something to eat?"

"Y-you would do that?" Thorn asked, and the surprise in his voice was almost painful.

"Of course." Touching the tip of his nose with her finger, she said, "But in exchange you must also eat and stay healthy."

"Do you promise?"

"Yes."

Thorn scrutinized her and then turned back to his meal. It took a moment, but then he plucked a berry off the tray and popped it into his mouth. After only one bite, his eyes lit up and he attacked the rest of the food as though not having eaten for days.

Selena stood tall and set her hands on her hips. Tipping her head in Arya's direction, she asked, "Would it be acceptable to prepare something for Murtagh?"

Arya set her drink down, and her eyes shone like starlight. "Of course."

"Thank you."

Brom held his cup in both hands and swirled the liquid inside. With a tinge of hostility, he said, "That is not necessary. Leave him be, for he cannot be trusted."

At this, Selena and a few elves gave him their full attention. Thorn stopped eating and rolled a bright red berry between his thumb and forefinger. Eragon traced the gaps in the tree bark with his eyes and then stared hard at an ant as it crawled out of hiding.

"And I am of the opinion that he can be, for he has done nothing to convince us otherwise." As Selena spoke, everyone around them silenced. Even the singers ceased their melodies. If she was bothered about having an audience, she did not make it known. "Or have you forgotten how he rescued us in the valley? There was no way he could have known who we were before he engaged the enemy, and his surprise upon seeing us for the first time suggested he helped us first only because we were people in need." Leaning forward, she pressed her hands flat on the table. "Furthermore, he was looking for Eragon all that time, and he brought him back to us! We owe him a great deal for that."

"You do not understand!" Brom rose and slammed his hands over the bark of the tree. Both Eragon and Thorn jumped, and everyone was staring. "He is Morzan's son and a wanted criminal!"

Selena huffed and straightened, her feet steady despite the liquor in her. She and Brom stared at each other as if waging war with their eyes, and neither wavered.

Arya took a drink and then set her cup down. It was her calm voice that next broke the silence and prevented them from speaking more heated words. "Perhaps it will not convince you one way or another, but allow me to share something with you." Her piercing gaze fell upon Brom. "It was a former knight of the Empire who first alerted King Orrin of Murtagh's presence in Surda. The man claimed Murtagh used magic to rescue a group of humans from slave traders and then raided a Ra'zac lair to rescue a group of children. The second account of Murtagh's presence came from several sailors who claimed a magic user boarded their ship and used his mind to save them from a sea serpent." At this, the corners of her lips twitched upward. "Murtagh was not reported for causing harm. Rather, the people expressed gratitude for his use of magic and for saving their lives."

Brom did not react, and his hard expression did not change.

Eragon continued to stare down at the bark on the tree while drowning in a flood of emotions that he successfully contained but failed at truly understanding. For his parents he felt a dull ache in his chest and hoped that they would see eye to eye again soon. Appreciation for Arya welled up in him and nearly brought tears to his eyes. Her tact at handling the situation was commendable, and she spoke with the wisdom and elegance of a queen.

Yet he was overwhelmed by her statements and those of Selena as well. It was new information to him that Murtagh had been searching for him. He woke up in Alagaësia with Murtagh at his side, but he had made a quick assumption that somehow chance brought them together. Never did he expect the other Rider to seek him out short of a command from Galbatorix. And to learn that Murtagh had been traveling throughout Alagaësia aiding everyone in need was equally as confusing, for it did not suit his character—or at least that is how Eragon thought.

With a sigh, Selena turned to Arya and said, "About food for him…"

Brom plucked his staff from alongside the tree and spun on his heels, storming down the path and towards his borrowed residence in the city. Barely noticeable, Selena watched him out of the corner of her eye.

Arya closed her eyes a moment and then nodded at Selena. "I will have a meal brought to Murtagh. You need not be concerned."

"Thank you."

And that was the end of it. Meals were finished, the music faded, and everyone departed to their own places.

Selena touched Eragon's shoulder before he could leave, and she kissed his cheek. Brushing his hair back across his head, she said, "Rest well, my love. A great challenge awaits you tomorrow."

Heat rose to Eragon's cheeks, and he grinned from ear to ear. Every touch and every word from her elicited from him immeasurable joy and strength, as if he was a small child being told by his mother that he could conquer the world—and believing it. "Thank you, Mother," he whispered. "Rest well."

Her brown hair twirled as she spun and disappeared down the path. Eragon watched her until she was completely out of view. In the meeting space, a few elves lingered and cleaned away all traces of the festivities and made the area look exactly as it really was: a forest with gnarled roots that leapt out of the dirt. As before, small lights flitted around and left trails of sparkling dust in their wake like enchanted fireflies.

Thorn remained seated and stared at the dirt, his eyelids heavy and lips pulled down. A few of the lights danced over his head, but he did not acknowledge them.

Eragon inhaled slowly and dared to take a seat beside him. "Do you want to come with me?"

"Why?" asked the child, unmoving.

"Because I miss Saphira," he answered, "and you miss Murtagh. We will make fine company for each other."

Thorn turned his head and blinked tears out of his eyes. It was hard to accept that this child was a noble dragon. "This body is troublesome. Humans are such emotional creatures."

"Exhaustion will have that effect on us," Eragon laughed. Standing, he offered his hand to Thorn. At first the child scrunched his forehead at the gesture, and then he slapped his little hand into Eragon's with enough speed to make it sting. Eragon only laughed harder and held Thorn's hand in his own. "You make a terrible human, Thorn."

"Of course. I am a dragon."

Eragon kept hold of the boy's hand and pulled him off his seat. Together they started down a winding path of twirling lights and creeping vines. Halfway down the walkway, Eragon halted and held his breath, for Arya was waiting amidst the shadows. A light spun across her face and illuminated her eyes like polished emeralds in blazing daylight. Her braid was undone and her raven hair cascaded over her shoulders.

"May I walk with you?" she asked.

Without thinking, he nodded.

Together they crept through the city towards Eragon's former dwelling, and they spoke of everything they had on their mind. Eragon told Arya of the current situation as far as he knew, and Arya did likewise. Most of the information was not new to either of them, but it lifted a heavy weight off his shoulders to speak it aloud.

As they neared their destination, Eragon squeezed Thorn's hand and said to Arya, "Murtagh is keeping something a secret, something important." In response, Thorn only rubbed his crimson eyes and opened his mouth in a wide yawn. His lack of reaction did not make Eragon think otherwise.

"You think he is planning something?" Arya folded her arms across her abdomen, her shoulders back.

"I honestly have no idea," Eragon admitted, and once more he peeked at Thorn out of the corner of his eye in the hopes of catching some sort of unintended reaction. The little boy wobbled on his feet and nearly toppled over, his eyelids falling before abruptly shooting open again. "But as long as he keeps secrets during a time like this, it troubles me. He knows what it means to me, especially regarding Saphira, and yet conceals information." Perhaps he was tired, but his words sounded rather too childish even to his own ears.

Once again, faelnirv likely did not help.

Arya supported her chin with one hand, and for a moment she said nothing. Eragon's hands started to perspire to the point that Thorn wrinkled his nose and broke their connection. The child then went on to wipe his hand on his brown leggings. Eragon's face burned.

"So you are fully aware," began Arya slowly, "Murtagh is not restricted from Ellesméra due to his affiliation with Morzan or Galbatorix. Rather, it is on account of Oromis and Glaedr that we cannot permit him entrance now. It is too soon for my people to accept him." Then her face softened and her eyelids lowered. Her thick, black eyelashes stood in stark contrast to her eyes. "However,  _you_  should remember that Murtagh did not choose Morzan and did not choose Galbatorix. Yet, when given the choice, Eragon, he chose you."

Every last bit of remaining anger and frustration in Eragon crumbled, and her words took his breath away. As he tried to remember how to breathe, tears welled up and threatened to fall down his face. In all of his time spent traveling—in all of his experiences with Murtagh—he had failed to see it.

On their flight to Farthen Dûr, despite their scuffles, Murtagh had not abandoned him despite the fate he knew awaited him at the Varden. On the Burning Plains, during their ill-fated reunion, Murtagh had risked the wrath of Galbatorix in order to allow him to escape. In the castle of Urû'baen, Murtagh had broken free from his oaths to Galbatorix and spoke the Name that stripped Galbatorix of his defenses. Even now, though Eragon did not understand completely, Murtagh was helping him—searching for him when he was lost, rescuing him from the nightmares in his mind, and aiding him in his quest to rescue the dragons.

Familiar feelings of affection for Murtagh stirred in him that he often thought better to bury, but now he accepted them. The other was not without his shortcomings, but he was genuinely trying and had been from the start. Eragon wondered why it was so painfully easy for him and for everyone to ignore the good Murtagh did and accept only that he was Morzan's son and nothing else.

A single tear escaped down his cheek, and he struggled to blink the rest back as he met Arya's gaze. "Thank you." From the bottom of his heart, he meant it.

Arya nodded. "Rest well, Eragon." Then, she departed.


	22. Remnants of the Clash

Eragon awoke with a clear head, and all of the fatigue and aches from the days before were but a memory. Stretching his arms over his head, he appreciated the strength in his muscles and the energy that surged through him from a good night's rest. Only after noticing his gedwëy ignasia was gone did he allow his arms to drop to his sides on the bed. Nevertheless, he would be reunited with Saphira soon and nothing else mattered.

At his feet, in a tangled knot of little arms and legs, was Thorn, and the child snored with mouth gaping wide.

A platter of fruits and vegetables sat on a plain wooden table at the side of the dwelling, and a heap of clothing sat on the chair. Eragon slipped out from beneath the blanket, tugging the bundle of soft garments apart to see what had been left. A full outfit had been provided for both of them, and Eragon pressed between his palms the smooth fabric of the forest green tunic meant for him. The clothing was princely and elvish, of high quality.

Bathing in the familiar tub of water in the floor, Eragon dressed in his new attire and fastened a dark leather belt at his waist. Even boots had been provided for him, the soles of which were thick and sturdy. After eating, he woke and encouraged Thorn to do the same. The child bathed, ate, and dressed in his new crimson tunic and black leggings. He attempted to smooth his unruly hair while it was still damp, but all he managed to do was make the short strands stick up higher than ever before. Apparently touch caused his hair to rebel.

Wrapped in heavy, silky cloaks, together they left the dwelling and found an elf waiting to escort them through Ellesméra.

Faint sunlight filtered through the trees and cast dancing shadows upon the ground. Birds sang exotic melodies overhead, their blue and green feathers flashing against the ceiling of gold leaves. Dried leaves crunched under every footstep. Eragon tugged his cloak tight at his chin and exhaled a puff of air onto his cold fingers.

Near the edge of the city, Arya waited for them. Her raven hair fluttered on a gentle breeze and kissed her smooth cheeks. Most of her regal clothes had been exchanged for traveling garb, but even her long green tunic shimmered with golden thread. Her cloak was forest green on the outside but white underneath, thick and with a fluffy texture like wool.

"Were you able to rest well?" she asked. Her face glowed in the scarce light like one of the fireflies from the night before.

"Very much so," Eragon said, and he smiled. "Thank you for your hospitality."

Arya did not smile, but Eragon wished she would. Even though she stood straight and tall, her shoulders hung from an unseen and weighty load. As she moved ahead on the path, she said, "It will be a difficult course from here. Are you ready?"

Without a moment's hesitation, he said, "Absolutely."

Together they walked until they were far from the city and in a remote part of the forest overgrown with vines like scarlet walls. Arya walked with her fingers entwined in front of her, but after a while she began to fidget with the gold buckle on her leather belt. Even in the quiet of the deep forest it was difficult to hear her as she said, "I am about to show you something. Please do not be alarmed."

Eragon opened his mouth but then shut it again.

Arya pulled back a curtain of vines and waved a hand for Eragon and Thorn to proceed. Beyond the walkway was an enormous clearing splattered with golden leaves, and resting upon them was the emerald dragon, Fírnen. Fírnen was curled tight into a ball and did not move when they arrived. Scattered on the ground all around him were the remains of once vibrant green scales now lackluster and devoid of color. All across Fírnen's body lay gaping holes to unguarded and tender flesh.

"W-what happened to him?" Eragon hurried forward but paused at a distance when the dragon's intense golden eye popped open and landed on him.

"When the magic in the world shifted, his strength failed," Arya said, and she pressed her hand to Fírnen's snout. Her eyes flicked to Thorn. "For beings like dragons that are magic in nature, the changes in Alagaësia have been tragic. Perhaps becoming human or being sealed is a better fate than this." Again her gaze settled on Eragon. "Even my people have felt the consequences of this change, and our strength wanes with each new day."

"Are you able to travel?" Eragon directed his question to Arya but also to Fírnen.

The dragon's large wings stretched high overhead, and finally he unwrapped himself from his tail.  _At least for now, the greatest damage is superficial_ , said Fírnen in a deep and powerful voice.  _Yet if we linger too long, my wings will no longer carry us._

Arya's thin eyebrows pinched together. "Soon, neither Fírnen nor I will have the strength to aid you."

_We depart at once._  Fírnen rose, and only for a moment his front legs trembled beneath his large body.  _My strength shall not leave me until my kin are safe from harm._

"As you wish," Eragon said, and he rubbed his arms beneath his cloak from a sudden chill. "Though if you are too weak, surely we can—"

"We are out of time, Eragon." Arya's face twisted, as if in great pain, and then she exhaled sharply. "We must rescue them at once and uncover the truth or soon all elves and dragons will be lost."

At her words, Eragon shuddered all the way up his spine. Near the walkway from where they entered, Thorn bit his lip and pulled up the hood of his cloak to conceal his face. The toes of his boots pointed inward, and he tucked his elbows in at his sides. Then the veil of vines opened again and several elves entered with arms full of supplies, including a long saddle that would comfortably seat two people. Acknowledging their queen only in passing, they began to dress Fírnen for the long journey.

Then from the walkway appeared Brom and Selena, both bathed and garbed in thick, clean clothing. His mother wore a green tunic similar to Arya's as well as black leggings, functional but also elegant, and his father wore thick padded leather of a rich brown. They walked side by side on equal terms without the tension of the night before. Selena's pace quickened, and before Eragon knew her intentions, she engulfed him in her arms. He returned the embrace and inhaled deeply, the lavender scent of her hair putting him at ease.

"I know you are not a little boy," she whispered into his ear, "but it pains me to part with you when I have only recently reunited with you." Then she clasped his head with both her hands, holding his gaze while smoothing his hair with her slim fingers. "Promise me that you will do everything you can to return to me safely, without taking unnecessary risks and making reckless choices."

"I promise." Eragon initiated the next hug, his lips tugging into a smile as she reciprocated and squeezed him in both arms.

"Ride swiftly, my love," said Selena, and she released him only enough to take hold of his face again and kiss his cheek. Then she turned away, her deep brown eyes wet with tears.

Next, Brom placed his hand on Eragon's shoulder. Their gazes met and remained locked, and Eragon searched his father's expression for insight into his thoughts, but Brom was perfectly passive. Then his father wrapped an arm around his shoulders and held him close. Tears stung Eragon's eyes, for he was not yet ready to leave his parents that he only recently received back from the grave. If anything happened to him—or to them in his absence—it would be a cruel act of fate.

"Look after yourself for your mother's sake," Brom told him, and then he gripped his shoulders and held him at arm's length. His father's hands were strong and steady. "And for my sake as well."

"I will," said Eragon, and his grin grew wider still. Brom touched his face, warming his cheek, and then released him.

Lingering next to his parents for a few moments longer, Eragon finally turned and, last of all, approached Thorn. The small child was standing apart from everyone else with his hood pulled almost entirely over his face. Eragon knelt and pulled away the covering. A few stray tears rolled down Thorn's cheeks.

"Please," whispered Thorn, "do everything you can to save my kin."

Eragon tipped his head, wiped the child's tears away, and then rose. Before departing, he put his hand atop Thorn's head and rustled his hair, leaving crimson spikes standing in every direction. The child whined and slapped his small hands on his head, combing the strands back into place but to no avail. Eragon chuckled and left the boy puffing for air in a fit of rage. At least he was not crying.

"Are you ready?" Arya stood beside Fírnen, her hand on her partner's heaving side.

"Are you certain about this?" Eragon asked, and he looked again to Fírnen's golden eye, and then his attention returned to Arya. "The flight will be long."

"Even before you arrived, we were to set flight in the hopes of restoring our world," said Arya. "If our enemy desires the dragons, then the dragons they  _must not have._ "

Eragon nodded. "Then let us go."

Arya climbed into the saddle and fastened her legs with various leather straps and buckles. Then she offered her hand and pulled Eragon behind her. The saddle was designed for two people and had bands for his legs as well, and he secured himself into the seat. Once they were seated, Fírnen crouched low and spread his wings wide. He separated from the ground with a single powerful leap, and his wings caught the air, lifting them into the bright cerulean sky beyond the forest.

Below, Brom held his hand across his brow and shadowed his eyes, and Selena waved. Eragon watched them until he could no longer distinguish them from every other color on the ground and the world seemed no more than a sea of crimson and gold that stretched on forever. Fírnen shifted east and then propelled them forward with a start that nearly knocked Eragon backwards. If not for the straps securing his legs, he would have been lost.

Immediately, he wrapped an arm around Arya's slim waist for stability, and her long hair lapped the air around him. The scent of pine needles filled his nose, and he breathed deep of the familiar scent. Arya said nothing and leaned forward against the wind.

Fírnen carried them across the sky. Rolling forests of gold eventually ceased and gave way to wide open plains. The wind buffeted them and forced Eragon and Arya low, but Fírnen persisted. Eragon held fast to Arya and braced himself for a long journey, and he only hoped that Fírnen's wings would not lose their strength.

\-----

Sweat trickled down Eragon's back and plastered his clothing to his skin. The farther they traveled, the thicker the air became with moisture until it was an oppressive but invisible fog. Sunlight blazed upon them with as much strength as in the Hadarac Desert. Removing outer layers meant likely losing them to the wind, and so they remained garbed in their thick garments and cloaks. Grassy plains rolled on for as far as the eye could see, and only a single curling river broke the monotony of the view. Enormous mountains loomed in the distance. Fírnen swooped low over the river and then ascended higher than before. A cool wind dried their sweat but did nothing to cease the sun's assault.

"Are you certain you know which way to go?" Eragon finally asked, for they had been flying for several days almost continuously. Only on a few occasions did they land, and not for long.

The dragon hummed in his throat and said,  _I can feel the presence of powerful magic ahead, as well as the strength of my kin. We will arrive soon._

_Will you be all right?_  Eragon spoke in Fírnen's mind as the dragon allowed their connection to linger. It was the first time in a while he had spoken as such, and it made him ache deep in his chest all the more for Saphira.

_You did not realize._  Arya glanced over her shoulder at him, and there was a sparkle in her eye.  _The Eldunarí have lent Fírnen their strength. He is just as well now as when we departed Du Weldenvarden._

Several Eldunarí then touched his mind from within Fírnen's saddlebags, filling Eragon with a sense of elation. Knowing full well they would arrive at their destination safely with the Eldunarí's help, all of the tension melted out of his muscles.

At last the blazing sun drifted near to the horizon, painting the sky as gold and bright as Du Weldenvarden, and some of its heat relented. On the edge of the horizon in the east lay a dark outline like ominous rolling clouds, and it grew as they flew on. As stars painted themselves across the pink and violet sky, the outline began to take shape.

Rather than clouds, it was a bubbling and twisting mass of darkness that was thick like mud and stirred like fog on a windy day. It reached as high as any mountain and stretched on for as far as the eye could see to the north and south. One could not see above it or around it, for it was like a wall that severed the land in two. Fírnen drew near at first and then jerked away from it, beating his wings to propel them backwards, and then he shot upwards but could not reach the highest point of the wall before they ran out of strength. Even in the south where the darkness dipped was it too high for them to overcome.

"What is this?" Eragon leaned around Arya to inspect the barrier, and then his stomach twisted in a knot. The way the wall rose and fell, the way it curved and went on for miles, was the very shape of the land he called home. He squeezed Arya's waist.

She turned in her seat and frowned at him, her eyes searching him. "What is the matter?"

"M-Mount Arngor… Everything is beneath this!" Through gritted teeth, Eragon said, "Saphira…"

The darkness shifted like water but remained bound together by some unbreakable force. In various places, pieces of dark matter separated from the whole and floated away like bubbles before disintegrating into the air.

Fírnen skirted the black wall, tilting to avoid its wavy surface, and sailed far south.  _It is made of powerful magic,_  he said.  _Unless it is well concealed, I see no weakness and no way through._

A word fluttered off Arya's lips like the ringing of a bell, and Eragon nearly missed it. It was as if his mind had forgotten. She spoke  _the_  Word, capable of nullifying all forms of spoken magic. Yet the wall only rippled at the sound, as if a tiny droplet of water had splashed into it. It did not diminish in the slightest.

Arya straightened and searched the dark surface. "We should return to Ellesméra and bring Murtagh here. If he is able to reverse magic, he may be able to undo this or at least allow us to enter."

"We cannot leave," said Eragon, and his voice wavered. He squeezed the edges of the saddle to keep his hands from shaking. "Saphira is down there. Is there nothing we can do?"

Shifting, Arya pressed her hand to her dragon's scales.  _Fírnen, can you break it?_

_Absolutely not,_  he said with a snort.

The Eldunarí in the saddlebag murmured in agreement with such buzzing that Eragon's head hurt. Nevertheless, the emerald dragon flipped in the air, stretched his maw wide, and then unleashed upon the rippling barrier an explosion of flames that singed Eragon's eyebrows. The fire died against the wall as though drowned in a waterfall.

Arya reached into the pouch at her hip and withdrew a crimson fruit no larger than her fist. Reeling back, she hurled it into the black wall. The fruit struck the darkness and then was swallowed completely, disappearing, and nothing of consequence immediately followed. Then, a bright red fruit pelted Eragon in the back of the head and then dropped into the river below.

"W-what?" Eragon held his head.

Nothing existed behind them aside from an endless fading sky filled with stars.

Arya stared at the water where the fruit had fallen, and then she lifted her eyes once again to the swirling darkness covering the land. Closing her eyes and pinching her lips into a straight line, she raised a single finger towards the wall ahead of them. Lights flashed across her palm as she whispered words in the ancient language, some that Eragon recognized but many that he did not. A ring of light as large as Fírnen shone against the dark barrier, and then it shattered like glass and disappeared. Arya's hand trembled and the lights faded, and briefly, her fingertips became translucent. She let out a cry and snatched her hand to her body, curling over herself.

"Are you all right?" Eragon leaned forward and grabbed her arms, and her entire body shook.

_Turn back,_  she said, and even the voice in her mind wavered.  _We must leave quickly._

"What happened? Are you all right?" Eragon gave her arms a squeeze and tried to catch a glimpse of her face, but she turned away from him.

_It is drawing away my strength. We need to move as far away as possible and hope the connection severs, or I will…_

"Fírnen!" Eragon's heart hammered in his chest, his head swimming.

Fírnen moaned deep in his throat and did a loop, turning them around. He arched his back in preparation for a surge in speed, and it was in the very brief moment that Eragon was parallel to the ground that he saw the silhouette that devoured the stars.

"Fírnen, look out!" he shrieked.

A Lethrblaka far larger than Fírnen crashed into them and sent them all spiraling towards the water. Its enormous claws dug into the weak spots in Fírnen's scaly armor, piercing skin, and its beak snapped around the dragon's neck. Fírnen clawed at the creature's legs and underbelly as they tumbled towards the river. As hitting the water became imminent, the Lethrblaka spread its wings and released its hold, rising on a wind, and Fírnen was able to land in the water with his wings open. It was deep, but with a few heavy flaps, he was able to get into the air again.

_Fírnen, fly! You must outrun it._  Arya leaned forward and clung to one of her dragon's spikes.  _We do not have the strength to fight it._

Yet before Fírnen could so much as dip his wing to turn, the Lethrblaka swooped over them. Fírnen was smaller and managed to slip through its grasp, and he curled around the stark black creature and caught hold of its rough hide in his teeth. Again they plummeted until Fírnen let go and spun high into the sky, and then he unleashed a plume of fire on the Lethrblaka. Amidst the flames, the dark creature let out a piercing roar.

Without pause and body alight with embers, the Lethrblaka burst from the fire and caught hold of Fírnen's tail in its beak, eliciting a howl from the dragon, and then it wrenched its head downward. Fírnen rolled in the air and clawed at its head, scratching at the scars that made up one of the Lethrblaka's eyes.

_Fírnen!_  Arya was still curled over herself from the magic that ate away at her strength. Nevertheless, she raised her hand against the Lethrblaka and shouted, " _Letta!_ " By her command the Lethrblaka stopped gnawing on her dragon's tail for only a second, and then her spell broke and the creature roared, releasing Fírnen only long enough to twirl around him in order to snap at his vulnerable flesh. " _Gánga_!" she yelled, and the creature did not respond. Her hand faded into the night, and Eragon could see straight through her.

"Stop, Arya!" he yelled, and he grabbed her arm and pulled it back. Then he fumbled at her side for the sword that she wore despite knowing it would do little against a Lethrblaka.

When the Lethrblaka detached from Fírnen, the emerald dragon propelled himself across the surface of the water in a low dive, building speed.

Arya panted for air and raised her hand again. " _Brisingr_!"

Flames exploded over the Lethrblaka's head and swallowed the creature in black smoke. Fírnen's wings pounded against the air. It was in vain. From out of the fire came the Lethrblaka, smoke curling out of its mouth and its body glowing from the fierce heat. It overcame Fírnen with two powerful beats of its enormous wings, and then it fell on them.

Eragon shouted a word of magic to no avail and swung Arya's sword. Jagged claws closed in around them.

Then, the surface of the water broke beneath them. A Nïdhwal with mouth gaping burst out of the river, its flippers treading the air. The sharp point of a wooden spear protruded from the back of its head. Before the Lethrblaka could strike, the Nïdhwal snatched the Lethrblaka's leg in its needle-like teeth and dragged it towards the water. The Lethrblaka squawked and in turn caught Fírnen's tail, and together they crashed into the river.

Eragon inhaled water as they hit the surface hard. Darkness enveloped them, and bubbles tickled his skin in an endless rush. Indigo sky whirled overhead and was devoured by black as they sank deeper and deeper. The weight of the water crushed them.

Suddenly they were falling, and Eragon was coughing up water in dry air. Black and red and green whirled together, and then Fírnen hit solid ground. Above was the night sky flecked with stars, but all around them lay rolling hills of colorless sand.

Arya sputtered up water and leaned over Fírnen.  _Fírnen, go now!_

Fírnen spread his wings and leapt off the ground.

Beneath them, the Lethrblaka wrestled with the Nïdhwal, which maintained its grip on its leg. The sea serpent thrashed and beat its flippers in the sand. The Lethrblaka slapped the Nïdhwal repeatedly with its wings until its leg was released, and then it climbed on its foe and pinned it down. Barking into the night, the Lethrblaka then began to peck out the Nïdhwal's eyes.

"What just happened?" Eragon gasped, and his lungs and throat were raw from coughing up water. As far as the eye could see was only desert, and he could see his breath.

_Magic,_  Fírnen said.  _Powerful magic._

_Keep going._  Arya finally managed to sit up. Slowly she raised her hand and turned it before her eyes. Her fingers were solid and unharmed.  _Let us not linger here._

No one argued, and Fírnen propelled himself forward long after the Lethrblaka and Nïdhwal were out of sight.


	23. A Kingdom Falls

For several days, Murtagh hid himself away in a small hollow beneath the roots of an enormous tree. It had probably been a den to some larger animal at some time but had been abandoned for a while. The leaves scattered across the dirt were flat and ripped to pieces, and he had to wrestle a few cobwebs before claiming the hole as his own. Given the dry conditions in his little hideaway, Murtagh decided to forgo a fire and had shivered his way back into a state of numbness.

Exhaustion hung over him like a thick cloud, and no matter how long he slept, he was only worse off upon waking. Always was slumber fleeting, and the rare occasions when he was able to sleep, he had nightmares of Galbatorix and his father. His head throbbed.

Crunching leaves and snapping twigs stirred Murtagh from another dip into hurtful dreams. Footsteps announced the approach of a human, for elves and animals crept a little more skillfully. He burrowed in his cloak with his hood over his head and did not care if no one could see him. Then his mother's face peered at him through the web of roots that formed the entrance of his hiding place.

Murtagh scrambled upright and yanked his hood off his head, his cheeks burning. Only elves had visited him since their arrival in Ellesméra, and even though he expected a human by the sound of footsteps, he had not taken the time to consider it might be her.

Selena ducked her head and slipped inside. In one hand she held a small parcel wrapped with smooth green cloth and tied with leather string and in the other hand she carried a small lantern illuminated by magic. Setting the lantern in the center of the tiny burrow, she extended the package.

"Dinner," she said, and then she set it in the space between them. Her eyes moved to the side of the burrow and found another tray of food left by the elves that Murtagh had yet to touch. "You are not eating?"

"I…" Murtagh shut his mouth when his voice cracked, and he rubbed his face. Crossing his legs in front of him, he sighed and tried again. "I have eaten some." It was not a lie, for he had tried to eat what the elves offered him, but little of it sat well in his stomach. Not wanting to concern her, he said, "I have done very little in the past few days and do not have much of an appetite."

"You need to eat." Opening the package she brought, she pushed it towards him. Within were various fruits and vegetables typical of the meals the elves ate.

Murtagh took a bright green fruit and rolled it in his hands. "There is no word from Eragon or Arya?"

"Not yet." Selena returned to the entrance of the burrow and sat on one of the upturned roots. She wrung the hem of her long tunic in both hands until it was a mess of wrinkles, and then she pressed her hands into fists and set them on her knees. "I am certain they are fine."

"As am I," Murtagh said, and he put the fruit back on the ground. "Together they are a force to be reckoned with, and they are not so easily overcome."

At last Selena's lips turned up into a smile and her shoulders eased down. "And how are you faring?"

Murtagh snorted and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back into the pit between roots that he had made into a bed. "Oh, great. Hibernation is fun."

She laughed. Comfortable silence passed between them, and Selena stared at the lantern, her eyes reflecting the light. Every bit of her was similar to Eragon, from the color of her eyes and hair to the shape of her nose and face. Many similarities existed between them beyond their physical appearance, too, such as how their eyes shined whenever they were glad.

A familiar gnawing ache gripped Murtagh's chest as he realized he had nothing in common with her. He sank further into his hole and stared at the gnarled roots in front of him, and he kicked at them with one boot.

"You look tired." Selena spoke barely above a whisper, and now her hands were folded between her bent knees. As he turned his head towards her again, her face and shoulders fell. With a gasp, she said, "Your fever! Sandstorm is still missing, as is your medicine! Are you—"

Murtagh popped upright. "I am all right."

Nevertheless, she slid off the root and landed on one knee, extending her slender fingers to his forehead. Exhaling sharply, she withdrew her hand to her chest as though she had pricked her fingers on a needle. "You're burning up." Then she pressed her hand over his on the ground, and he immediately recoiled. Her eyebrows sank and pinched together. "You are unwell from using so much magic. You have still not recovered?"

Murtagh's tongue struggled on several words, and then finally he was able to say, "I am fine." Yet after saying it so many times, surely it was beginning to lose its meaning. He did not want her to worry on his account, though, and he did not know how else to convince her.

"Yet here you are, shivering in the cold, while the rest of us rest in luxury." Rising, Selena returned to her perch and set her elbows on her knees, propping her head in her hands. She pouted, and for some reason it made Murtagh chuckle.

"What greater luxury is there than this?" Then, he sank into his pit again and tugged his cloak around him. "An elf prepared your dwelling, but a bear prepared mine, and surely nothing is better at proper rest and hibernation than a bear."

Selena bit her lower lip and stared at him. Even as she shook her head, the corners of her lips curled upwards. "I will ask the elves to prepare medicine for you," she finally said, sitting straight. "It is the least they can do after treating you so poorly."

Murtagh forced a smile. "Everything that has happened to me I have rightfully deserved. Do not hold it against them."

"No one deserves to be treated like an outcast. Not even the son of Morzan." Selena exhaled on her hands and then tucked them beneath her cloak. "And to think they would treat you like this knowing you are a Dragon Rider."

Murtagh flew upright, staring hard at her. Once again the cold permeated his skin and clothes. He shivered.

"Thorn mentioned it and Arya confirmed it," she explained. "Was it supposed to be a secret?"

It was inevitable now. In little time she would uncover what the living world knew very well—that he was not simply a Rider but  _Galbatorix's_  Rider and right hand, the man who had taken Morzan's place. With his own hands he had slaughtered countless innocents, elf, human, and dragon alike. If that was not enough to make her hate him, then Murtagh pointing his blade at Eragon time after time certainly would. Every rejection stung, though Murtagh deserved them all, but he doubted he could survive hers.

And so he remained quiet and focused wholly on a tear in the fabric of his black trousers just over the knee.

"To think Thorn was a dragon." Selena sighed and leaned back, and if she was upset by his silence, it did not show. Again she grinned, a gleam in her eyes. "It explains a lot."

Murtagh rubbed his face as heat crept into his cheeks. "He is not very skilled at playing human, is he?"

"Not at all," she said with a laugh. Patting her knees, she rose and shuffled towards the entrance of the burrow, letting out a foggy puff of air as her hair snagged on a root. Tugging it free, she faced Murtagh. "I will see about medicine for your fever. In the meantime, you should eat well and try to rest."

"Thank you for your concern."

Selena watched him a moment longer and then departed, leaving behind the parcel of food and the lantern. Murtagh stared at the entrance until her footsteps trailed off into the distance. Then he sank back into his hole and pulled his hood over his head.

He had too many secrets and too much to hide that could cause her a great deal of harm, and he hated it. He hated that he was Morzan's son, that he submitted to Galbatorix, and that he was as much a monster as both of them. If recalling all of Morzan's torture did not devastate her, then surely knowing that her son served the most hated king in all of history certainly would.

Murtagh smiled wryly. Yet if his father and brother were any indication, it was likely she did not care enough about him for it to bother her at all.

With that in mind, he rolled over and tried to sleep.

\-----

Murtagh woke up shaking.

A nightmare lingered in his mind of Galbatorix torturing him and Thorn. Even though it was nothing but a memory, the pain was real, and phantom aches spread across his body. Truthfully, he had learned to accept that these dreams would never go away and had made peace with them. What woke him was not Galbatorix—rather, it was Eragon who appeared afterwards and asked for Murtagh to surrender and die and then blamed him for countless atrocities after not doing so. His slip into Eragon's subconscious had some lingering consequences, apparently.

Rubbing his head, Murtagh sat up and blinked to adjust his dry eyes. The lantern cast an orange glow in the burrow, but outside dusk crept through the forest. It was eerily quiet, as though the birds had gone to sleep but the insects had failed to stir for the night.

The familiar scent of burning wood stung his nostrils. One or two elves usually lingered near his burrow, and he climbed out from beneath the tree expecting to see his guards keeping a fire to ward off the cold. No one was there. With his mind, Murtagh scanned the surrounding forest for life and found not a single trace, neither elf nor insect, and a few leaves fluttered down around him, brown and crisp. Overhead, the crimson and gold leaves of earlier in the day had been replaced by leaves long since dried and dead.

His stomach sank.

Murtagh moved forward with slow, intentional steps. If there was a twig that would crack, he avoided it. The darkness both set him at ease and set him on edge, for it worked in his favor but also in favor of anyone creeping around him. He concealed himself in the shadows of trees and scanned the fading forest.

Fog curled through bare branches like a trickling current of water. As it settled near the ground and swirled across Murtagh's face, he breathed deep of burning wood. The fog was not fog at all. Overhead, through the gnarled branches of dying trees, embers fluttered across a starless sky that was painted deep crimson.

The smoke, the embers, and the color of blood lingered over Ellesméra.

Forgetting his caution, Murtagh ran until the smoke was so thick that it blinded him, and then he felt his way from one tree to the next until he was on the edge of the city. There were no elves to bar his entrance, not anymore. Flames devoured Ellesméra. Dried trees burned away until only black husks remained, elven dwellings were reduced to cinder, and bodies were strewn on the ground.

Murtagh knelt beside the nearest elf and checked for life. It was faint, but the elf's heart still beat. Murtagh spoke a word of healing to close a gaping wound in their side just enough to keep them alive and then moved on. Anyone he passed he healed only enough to preserve their lives.

From deeper in the city came a booming voice, and though Murtagh could not distinguish words, he recognized the tone well enough. He drew his sword. The smoke burned his eyes but also served to conceal him. Every muscle in his body was rigid. He moved forward, slinking in twisting shadows cast by fire.

"You cannot hope to stop me," spoke Morzan from beneath a tangle of branches that had not yet been consumed. He rode upon a Lethrblaka as if it was a dragon. "There is only one now who can match my power." His eyes flashed as a wide grin broke out on his face. He raised a hand, and from out of the swirling smoke on the ground appeared Selena and Brom lifted on invisible strings until their feet dangled several feet off the ground. They clasped at their necks, strangled noises escaping their lips.

"No!" Murtagh stabbed his father's mind with his own and jumped out of hiding. His assault was so fierce that whatever threads Morzan had on the others were severed and the captives crumbled to the ground.

"And there he is," murmured Morzan with curled lips and bared teeth. So confident was he that he wore no armor, only garments black as night.

Smoke shifted across the ground and revealed not only Thorn, Selena, and Brom but countless collapsed elves. Standing atop shattered trees all around them were at least a half dozen Lethrblaka, small and slight but terrifying nonetheless. Murtagh's eyes shot in every direction, counting his foes and assessing their positions and potential weaknesses. Seven Lethrblaka surrounded them, not including the one his father rode.

"I came for you, my child," Morzan said in a sugary tone that turned Murtagh's stomach over. Then his father extended his arms to the whole of the city. "You were exiled even though you are the only one who can save them. It seems you and I are not so different. It is our shared fate to be hated and feared."

Murtagh kept a steady gaze on his father while under his breath he whispered words of healing to everyone around him. Broken bones mended and torn skin sealed. A few of the elves rose, but their legs trembled beneath them. Every last one of them had dark bags under their eyes and faces white as the moon.

Setting his hands across his Lethrblaka's neck, Morzan tipped up his nose and said, "You know what to do."

All seven of the surrounding Lethrblaka spread their wings and leapt into the air, vanishing into the darkness. Murtagh crouched low and prepared for an attack, his mind ever vigilant and focused on the sky, but nothing happened, not at first.

Then, in the distance, at the very heart of Ellesméra, a great explosion shook the earth and flames spread across the sky like a billowing cloud. Screams arose throughout the capital along with a pervasive and low moaning that carried on the wind, as if every living thing in Du Weldenvarden lamented a great tragedy.

"Come, Murtagh," suggested Morzan, and then his Lethrblaka took off into the sky and twirled beneath the cloud of fire that lingered in the heavens. He shot towards the center of Ellesméra and disappeared beyond the dying trees.

Selena rose on unstable legs, and Brom was shortly behind her. Thorn sat on one knee and gasped for air. Everyone was coughing from the smoke. None of the elves moved to save their city and instead only stared in the direction of the explosion. Their focus was so intense, the agony in their eyes so real, that chills swept across Murtagh's skin despite the blazing heat of flames surrounding them. Without a word, he started running.

Embers whizzed past his face as brilliant streaks of orange, and the sky continued to burn. His chest and throat tightened. A Lethrblaka soared overhead and crashed into the forest far off to the left, and immediately after was the sound of trees cracking and falling. The ground trembled.

In the center of Ellesméra was an enormous tree that was as wide as it was tall, and it reached into the blazing sky. Rather, the tree itself was burning like a torch that illuminated the entire forest. Crisp, brown pine needles glowed red from one end to the other and rained from the heavens. All around the majestic tree, Du Weldenvarden burned.

Murtagh slid to a stop, for there his father waited with a smile upon his lips. Morzan stood alone, and he cast Murtagh a glance before turning to face the enormous tree. His hand moved ever so slightly. By some invisible force, the tree was cleaved in two, and only by its broad and reaching roots and branches did it remain standing. Yet as its branches burned away, it began to tear apart, each half leaning in opposite directions.

"Join me, Murtagh." Morzan faced Murtagh again, his hands settled lightly on his hips. His eyes shone red. "Behold the power I can give to you."

Morzan's lips parted without making a sound, and he lifted his open palms.

All at once, hundreds of fireflies with streaming tails of glittering light rose from the ground. Their brilliant colors began to drain until nearly snuffed out, and tiny flecks of darkness like burnt parchment fell away from them into the stale air. Spirits—they were spirits. At the same time, trees began to evaporate into a black mist, roots fell apart like sand beneath Murtagh's feet, and trees toppled throughout the entire forest.

Suddenly every living thing had a voice that Murtagh could hear and understand, and screams reverberated in his ears and mind from the forest as it died. Worse than the wailing was the pain that gripped his heart as though someone held it in their hand and squeezed with all their might. He could not help the tears in his eyes.

"I will  _never_  stand beside you," he said, and his words struggled through gritted teeth.

Murtagh dove at his father and swung at his gut. Morzan had enough time to grin, cold and cruel, and then he shifted his cloak aside and drew a familiar red blade from his hip—Zar'roc. Murtagh's steel sword stopped on the sharp edge of his former blade.

"Submit," Morzan whispered over the swords pressed between them.

Murtagh flinched at the sight of Zar'roc. It was the only thing worthwhile he had ever received from Morzan, and now it had been taken back. His grip on his plain steel sword tightened and he pushed with every bit of his strength until Morzan slid back and had no choice but to disengage.

Meanwhile, the forest fell apart into a dark fog, and flames crawled over their heads and spread far and wide. Ellesméra had become a sweltering inferno, and sweat poured off Murtagh's sides. If not for his leather gloves, his grip on his sword would have failed.

It was a risky game, but as Murtagh swung at Morzan to keep him off balance, he extended his mind into the forest. Hundreds of living beings answered him with desperate minds that clawed at his own, yet he moved past those initial touches and reached for the magic that unraveled their existences. It came from Morzan, of this Murtagh had no doubt, but he sought a way to counter the magic without attacking it at its source. His father held three spirits, and he did not think it wise to confront him directly.

"Must you try to subvert me?" murmured Morzan with a wild grin. He stabbed into Murtagh's mind like a battering ram that threatened to bring down his defenses, but his father's eyes went wide when Murtagh stabbed back and nearly broke  _his_  barriers.

When neither could overwhelm the other's mind, Murtagh focused on physical attacks. His sword flashed orange from the fiery ceiling. He circled Morzan and targeted every weak spot, but his father, by the spirits, was stronger and faster. No amount of clever movements or swift attacks presented any openings.

Half of the largest tree in Du Weldenvarden crumbled away in the flames, and a woman's voice screamed—the tree itself had a voice.

Murtagh flinched, and Morzan took advantage of the distraction. He swept Zar'roc in a quick and wide arc, forcing Murtagh to wield his sword vertical in the air to catch the blow. Sparks flew as metal clanged together, and then Zar'roc cut Murtagh's blade clean in half. Murtagh huffed and staggered backwards to avoid a direct blow, but Zar'roc hit his shoulder and sent searing pain down his arm.

"Submit!" Morzan demanded, and he stepped over Murtagh as he stumbled.

Murtagh hit the ground but rolled out of Morzan's reach. "I would rather die." And as he spoke those words, he recalled saying the very same thing to Galbatorix as he was tortured and beaten.

A familiar rage rose up inside him, something that he had tucked away securely for the past year. In a matter of seconds, memories of weeks of torture at the hands of the Twins and Galbatorix were recalled to mind along with years of abuse under his father. Pain was not an effective tool to make him submit, certainly not, but it was an excellent motivator in an entirely different way.

Murtagh hopped to his feet and ducked as Zar'roc whizzed past his head, and then he touched the ground with a hand for balance and kicked Morzan in the gut. It was harmless but separated them. Then Murtagh muttered a dozen spells, one after the other.

His father's eyes shot wide open. "No!"

As the last of Murtagh's spell was uttered, a bubble of light spread out from him and overtook Du Weldenvarden. Spells of protection shielded the forest, and anything that did not belong—namely Morzan and his Lethrblaka—were cast out. It was the very same magic Murtagh had used in the dragon's keep.

Morzan cursed and screamed words of magic, but they had no effect against the powerful spells of protection and sealing. He dove and swung Zar'roc at Murtagh's head, but the crimson blade bounced off an invisible wall. The thin veil of glowing white carried Morzan into the branches and away into the fire raging in the sky, then farther still, until even the barrier itself disappeared. High overhead, the Lethrblaka shrieked and roared as they, too, were ejected by magic.

Flames danced around Murtagh. He fell against a tree, and its branches sagged and burned over his head. His spell shielded all of Du Weldenvarden, and covering such a broad area with magic had taken its toll. His vision blurred and his head pounded. A constant roaring like a crashing waterfall filled his ears. Then the second half of the massive tree began to fall, and Murtagh heard her scream again, the haunting and melodic voice of that tree, and finally tears fell down his face.

He was too late to save any of them.


	24. From Fire to Fire

Several shapes moved in Murtagh's peripheral vision. Humans or elves, he did not care. All around him, the forest screamed in the throes of death, and it was one of the worst sounds he had ever heard, like hundreds of people being tortured all at once.

Then he heard it, faint as a whisper. The mournful voice of a woman said,  _Draw from the deep._

Murtagh blinked and tried to understand, but his thoughts were muddled by pain. Suddenly, a root curled out of the dirt and touched his back, guiding him forward and presenting him to the torn and fallen tree. Behind him, the very trunk he had been leaning on was toppled by fire. Several more roots crawled around him before they pressed down into the soil. A puddle of water seeped out of the earth where one of the roots landed.

Deep.

Murtagh reined his thoughts, digging with his mind into the ground beneath the forest. A layer of frost lingered under the soil that would serve little purpose, and so he went beyond. Earth and stone followed, and everything within it was dead. Beneath it all was a reservoir of water that stretched far and wide and continued on far deeper than Murtagh wanted to venture.

Steeling himself and holding his breath, he grappled at the water and pulled it out. Orbs of dark liquid like bubbles lifted into the air, and each could have contained at least several dragons the size of Thorn. He carried them high into the sky and stretched them like a blanket over the forest. Murtagh let go.

Then, rain poured over Ellesméra. Just as quickly as they had started, the blazing flames were snuffed out, and smoke billowed through the sky and rolled across the ground.

_Reach deep,_  said the voice again ever filled with sorrow.  _Deeper._

Murtagh did not understand her intentions. Nevertheless, he pressed his mind into the earth. Beyond soil and stone, beyond a lake of water still flowing strong, he hit something that felt like nothing. It was empty and formless, and when he touched it, it touched back and made him shiver uncontrollably. As he moved through it, he began to swoon, and there was no end to it. When he tried to retreat, it held fast to him like dozens of powerful hands.

Having no other choice, he snatched hold of it with his mind and hauled it to the surface as he had done with the water before it—and it let him. Higher and higher he brought it, the large mass of  _nothing_ , and ripped it out of the ground.

Light flooded the forest. All around him, high and low, were shining lights like the brightest stars, and they left glittering trails behind them like rays of sunlight. There were hundreds if not thousands of them. They were as large as a man's head, though some quivered and fluctuated in size, and occasionally they shifted through all the colors of the rainbow. They circled him, some near and others far, and a few brushed against his face with a touch like the softest silk.

"Spirits," Murtagh murmured, struggling to breathe. One of the spirits stopped circling and loomed in front of him, and when he reached out his hand, and it hovered over his palm. His gedwëy ignasia glowed through the leather of his fingerless glove.

_What will you have of us, creature of flesh?_ asked the spirit, and when it spoke into his mind, Murtagh shuddered. It stirred in him every sort of emotion known to man, and he resisted tears of both sorrow and joy.

Murtagh blinked. Ellesméra and Du Weldenvarden lay in ruins. Now the forest did not wail, but it moaned deeply from the great loss it had suffered. Elves staggered out of the trees and held gaping wounds that bled through their garments and between their fingers. Brom was nursing his arm as though it was broken.

Without hesitation, Murtagh looked to the spirit in his hand. "Heal them."

_We can,_  said the spirit, and its blinking form shivered as though an image rippling on the surface of water.  _Or we can sustain you, creature of flesh, but both we cannot do. Soon you will be no more._

Murtagh shook his head and held the spirit out towards the enormous tree felled by his father. "Please," he whispered.

_As you command._

The spirit flitted away and rejoined the great host of others, and then all of the lights spun into a great swirling pillar that reached to the stars before bursting outward in every direction, bathing the forest in a soft glow. A river of white and formless light rushed across the ground, splashed over trees, and overwhelmed everything that it touched.

In its wake, the world sprang to life. Green plants burst out of ash. Fallen trees stirred and rose. As the trees reached high, branches budded and flowers bloomed, and then vibrant leaves unfurled. Even the largest tree with the haunting voice crept together again, its roots trembling in the ground like waves on the ocean. Deep green needles sprouted from its vast network of branches.

All of the injuries acquired during the attack were healed, even Murtagh's shoulder recovered with a touch of magic. Then the spirits lost strength of light and sank back into the ground. The rain ceased.

Murtagh inhaled deeply of soil and pine needles. Everything had died and came back to life as if winter to spring. Behind him, the elves, Brom, Selena, and even Thorn had gathered as a vast audience, and now they were frozen in place, unmoving and unblinking. Time had ceased. He started towards them when an enormous root thicker than his waist leapt out of the ground and caught him, drawing him backwards.

"Are you a spirit, too?" He faced the enormous tree.

The tree did not answer him other than by waving its branches in a nonexistent wind, and then one of its roots touched his back and moved him even closer. The entire tree leaned over him. Brilliant moonlight shone through its needles and gave it a dizzying silhouette.

"What can you tell me about what is happening?" Murtagh asked.

_Our world is at its end, for balance is unraveling and soon will be no more,_  answered the tree, and her words had a melodic tone. It was powerful, as if every letter was filled with magic.  _Very little can stop it now._

"What is causing it?" Murtagh took a step and was tripped up on a root. Several had gathered around his ankles to keep him in place. He frowned at the intrusion.

_You know,_  she said with a hint of sorrow, as though about to weep.  _You have seen with your eyes and have felt with your heart. Already the answer exists within you._

"Spirits, I know, but I do not know why." Murtagh sighed and hung his shoulders. Looking into the rustling needles over his head, he said, "What can I do to help?"

_That which you have done will be undone, for you cannot destroy a spirit._  Her roots shuddered across the ground.  _Spirits are balance and must not be lost._

Murtagh tipped his head. "You mean the spirits I destroyed in Ceunon and Narda—they will return?" At this the tree's branches waved in the air on a strong gust of nonexistent wind. Her roots fell to the ground at his feet. "If I cannot destroy them, what can I do? They must be stopped!" Climbing over the fallen roots, he pressed his hand against the enormous trunk of the tree. Warmth rushed through him. "Should I control them? Or—"

_You must not control them!_  Swaying from side to side, the enormous tree threatened to topple over. Murtagh stepped back.  _You must reach deep, to the center and deeper still, and then you will understand what you must do. Take hold of their power and use it against them. It is your only hope._

"What are you talking about?" Despite the healing, Murtagh's head still pounded and her cryptic words only made it worse. Ignoring the potential consequences, he made a fist and slammed it into the enormous trunk and sent a jolt of pain up his arm and through his shoulder that eventually numbed his limb. "If you have answers, give them to me. I can do nothing without knowing. Do you want us to die?"

Roots crawled up his legs and wrapped around his body, and every muscle went rigid as he expected the tree to squeeze the life out of him. Yet the roots only crawled up his face and tousled his matted hair, then slithered down and disappeared in the dirt.

_Soon those without a mind will come, and you will have your answers. I can teach you not what you already know._  Then a breeze, real and true, swayed the tree's branches. Softly she spoke, and her words echoed on the wind.  _You alone can do this, for you are the keeper of balance._

Then the forest came alive with a chorus of insects and frogs. Murtagh pressed his palm against the tree, and it was as cold as the crisp night air. Several gasps and hushed murmurs behind him caused him to turn. Elves stared at him with wide eyes and parted lips, and Thorn took a step towards him but hesitated. It seemed as though they were watching some great spectacle, and Murtagh was at the center of it.

Then a horn echoed with a long howl from far away. A moment of silence passed, and a second bellow followed the first. Elves straightened at the sound and Thorn jumped.

Brom turned abruptly. "That is…"

"Our watchmen," said one of the elves, slight of breath. "To the south."

Murtagh froze.  _Soon those without a mind will come,_  had said the tree. It rang over and over again in his head. His pulse quickened.

_Go,_  the tree whispered to him on a breeze. Her command confirmed his fears.

Murtagh heard nothing else, and everything moved around him in a slow blur. His chest tightened.  _Soon those without a mind will come._  The Ra'zac seemed to have no mind. But no, it was not them. Somehow he knew, and his skin crawled.

Without speaking, without breathing, he burst into a sprint. It was a long way through the forest, and still he ran. The spirit within him gave him strength. Darkness faded and the sun crept through the sky. Once he rested, but not for long. Just enough to finally breathe. His head was swimming. Elves kept his pace but did not stop him. Nightfall came again, and Murtagh stopped again only when his legs refused to carry him. Then again he ran.

Before the break of dawn, while a thin layer of frost still covered the ground, Murtagh left the shelter of the forest. Already were the green leaves of the forest shifting back to red and gold. A small band of elves gathered on a grassy plain beyond the trees.

Fire painted the distant horizon as torches bobbed in the air, and the line of flames stretched from east to west and engulfed the entirety of the grassland. The still silence of night was broken by the muted scraping of metal on metal that grew ever louder. Distant footsteps pounded in perfect rhythm upon the earth.

Murtagh stopped aside the elves. No one bothered to look at him, for none could peel their eyes from the horizon.

"What are they?" he asked.

"Dwarves armed for battle," answered an elf with narrow eyes.

More elves came from the forest, and most were on horseback. Thorn, Selena, and Brom were among them. Everyone gathered together, a tiny army compared to what approached.

"Why?" The word barely made it out of Murtagh's mouth.

"We do not know," another elf said. "There was no provocation."

Without provocation, without a reason to fight, the dwarves declared war on the elves. If the dwarves had any mind at all, they would not be so unwise as to march to their slaughter.

_Soon those without a mind will come._

Murtagh shook his head and let a puff of frosty air escape his lips. "They have no choice," he whispered, for it was all he could muster. Voices faded and every eye in their pitiable group turned on him. Those on horseback dismounted and joined them. Murtagh said, "The spirits have taken their free will."

"Shades?" murmured several elves in the background. Many began to pace.

"How do you know this?" asked a nearby elf who tipped his nose at Murtagh.

One side of Murtagh's lip went up before he could help himself, and then he answered, "Would you believe me if I said that a tree told me so?"

Silence fell, and the elf took a step back. His expression was rigid and his shoulders arched high. Somehow the statement meant far more to him than Murtagh expected. Then a horn rang across the plain and drew everyone's attention south.

"They are near," said another elf, and she drew her sword. "Prepare yourselves. We defend the forest at any cost."

Elves across the plain went back to the horses and gathered weapons that had been brought. They armed themselves with bows and arrows, swords, and spears.

"W-what?" Murtagh's head snapped around. When no one bothered to even look at him, he yelled, "They have no choice!"

"They are a threat that must be eliminated," said an elf with a chilling tone.

Her words landed like a slap to Murtagh's face. He took a step back, shut his mouth, and watched as they prepared for battle. It was a fight that should not be fought. The elves were weak from the previous attack and vastly outnumbered. The dwarves had no will of their own, and still many would die against the elves' superior strength and lingering magic.

Murtagh turned. Thorn was staring at him from between the horses, and his eyes were red and puffy. Selena and Brom were with him and wore frowns on their faces. They should not be anywhere near here. No one should have been.

"I will find a way to stop them," Murtagh declared to the elves.

Selena's eyes darkened. "You are in no condition to oppose anyone."

"She is right," said Brom, and he folded his arms over his chest.

"I will not stand by idle while they massacre each other." Murtagh invited himself to the weapons and found a bow, a quiver of arrows, and a sword, claiming them for himself. He fastened them on his person and then headed south without stopping. "And I will not sentence them to death when they have no choice in the matter."

"Why does this concern you?" questioned an elf with a raised eyebrow.

Murtagh huffed and kept forward with a quick pace. "Because I know what it is like not to have a choice."

"If they come near, we will attack," another elf said without hesitation. "And if you are in our way, we will be forced to strike you. You will be out of our protection."

Raising his hand, Murtagh waved over his shoulder without looking back. No one tried to stop him. He went ahead a ways, standing in the space between the two armies. Both sides he wanted to protect—both sides he  _would_  protect.

Murtagh braced himself with a wide stance. His mind stretched across the plain and prodded the approaching army, and it was like reaching into darkness that did not cease. Not a single dwarf existed that he could find, only a gaping hole of nothing.

Spirits.

Withdrawing from them, he took a deep breath. About a mile stood between them now, and the dwarves started taking shape. Murtagh allowed his hands to fall into fists at his sides and he clenched his teeth. Every mental barrier he could erect to protect himself he built and reinforced as though Galbatorix himself threatened him.

Dig deep or die. Murtagh launched his assault into the heart of the dwarven army until his mind began to fade to black.


	25. Within the Darkness

Murtagh reached across the surface of the minds of the dwarven army until the darkness that made up who they were became part of him as well. Black crawled over his thoughts and shook his concentration, but he shoved it aside and pressed forward. From one head to the next he hopped. It was not into the minds of the dwarves that he delved but instead into the all-consuming darkness. It was like swimming through sand.

Yet as he pushed deeper into the void, an intricate web of string that glowed faint violet shone through the black. Hundreds upon thousands of threads stretched out over him, under him, behind him, and before him until he was trapped within its net. Murtagh prodded at one of the strands with his mind. A flood of memories and feelings crashed into him, halting him where he was, and his heart stirred until tears came to his eyes. He understood nothing yet understood everything, and from the dawn of time until present the world was laid bare to him. It was something too great for him to comprehend.

Fortifying his mind, he pressed on into the web and let nothing hinder him. Even when he wanted to scream, to cry, to celebrate, he moved forward, and the threads brushed up against him and drowned him in a sea of memories.

Deeper. He had to go deeper.

Then suddenly he came back into himself and his eyes opened, yet his mind lingered far away, as if he existed in two places at once. Perhaps he did. The dwarven army marched closer, and their hammering footsteps made the earth shudder. Their metal armor and chainmail clanged and scraped together. Arrows whizzed towards Murtagh, but he crafted a simple barrier that dropped harmlessly into the grass at his feet.

Around the dwarven army and throughout the entire plain existed a violet web of glowing string, visible only to his mind, and Murtagh took hold of it and pulled at it. A powerful force pulsed through it like blood through veins, rushing in a singular direction, and Murtagh followed it towards its final destination.

As the pulse grew faster and stronger, the dwarves sprinted, throwing their torches and waving their swords high. They were close now, their eyes wild and their faces contorted in agony and rage. In a matter of seconds, they would reach him and the elves behind him, and all of them would perish.

Murtagh dove with his mind into the center of the army, following the raw and coursing energy along the strings, and then he struck a wall of nothing. His mind curled around the threads bound to the void, and he yanked on the pulsing strand with all his strength. The glowing string snapped and fizzled away.

All of the dwarves dropped their weapons and crumbled mid-run, falling over each other into lifeless heaps of small bodies. The threads dissolved over them and swirled together into a massive, whirling pool of black energy, and then it shaped itself into a monstrous creature larger than Shruikan, its familiar form the twisted union of man, Lethrblaka, and serpent.

Murtagh retreated to his own head as the creature lurched forward, its gaping mouth hanging over the collapsed dwarves. It growled from deep in the void that was its throat, and then dark flecks of dust lifted off the dwarves, the grass, and the trees as their physical forms were undone at the seams.

"I don't think so," Murtagh said, and he plunged into the creature's mind with his own, digging mercilessly into the empty space. Before long he discovered the same violet strings, and he severed them as he went, cutting off the flow of energy and ceasing the monster's attack.

All the while, the dark spirit roared and thrashed. It crawled forward and barked with loud and piercing cries, its claws ripping into the dirt. Dwarves sank beneath its paws and then reappeared as it stepped past, their skin drained of color and muscles wasted away. Murtagh pieced the dwarves back together while maintaining his assault on the monster.

Behind him, elves muttered and whispered.

Murtagh sifted through the dark spirit's blank mind, following chords of violet as far as they went, until he reached a gnarled ball of twisted thread that pulsed like a beating heart. Whenever it throbbed, bright white light shone through gaps in the string. He grappled it with invisible hands and yanked the ball apart until violet threads scattered everywhere and the light began to burn through. A weight crashed upon Murtagh's mind with enough force to throw him into his head and break his connection to the corrupt spirit.

Suddenly he was standing in the throne room of Urû'baen, and Galbatorix frowned at him for letting Eragon escape. The king did not so much as raise a finger before Murtagh crumbled to the ground, every muscle in his body twisting and contorting from pain. When the attack relented, Thorn was next, and his dragon's pain hurt him far worse than his own, and he screamed.

Returning to his right mind, Murtagh stumbled backwards. The dark creature pressed ever closer, though now the dark matter that made up its form leapt about like ocean waves in a storm. Bits and pieces of it dissolved into the night air. Murtagh had found its core, the very center of its being, and he dove in again to strip it of its power.

Yet again, as he ripped apart the threads that secured the light inside it, Murtagh was thrown back into his head. His legs gave way beneath him and he dropped to one knee. Once again he was in the presence of Galbatorix, though now in a dungeon of the castle, and he was soaked in sweat and blood. Behind the king were the Twins, their faces cold and hard but their eyes illuminated with sadistic pleasure. Both in unison curled their lips into a feral grin.

"You will submit to me," said Galbatorix, and he clasped a handful of Murtagh's hair and tipped his head back, forcing him to meet eyes with him. Murtagh sputtered on his own blood. "Yet this can go on forever. I will make it so."

The king let go, and Murtagh collapsed into a puddle of blood on the stone floor. His wounds mended by magic and his pain ceased, and only for a second his mind rested. He never let down his guard, though, and he was so tired. Yet if forever this was his fate, so be it. He would never surrender to Galbatorix.

And then the Twins approached, chanting and murmuring spells of the vilest torture, and he writhed in agony again.

Murtagh snapped back to reality and swallowed hard as bile crept into his throat. Everything was spinning. Dwarves and elves murmured, creating a hum all around Murtagh, but he did not understand their words. The dark creature stepped towards him, its head low and its maw twitching. The horizon was painted crimson at the first light of dawn, and it formed an eerie backdrop like blood against the dark spirit's wavering form. Its entire body was crumbling away, little by little.

Determined to defeat it, Murtagh stabbed one last time into its empty mind, hacking away at the ball of thread with a phantom sword. Then he ripped off the last of it, and there within was a shining light with a glittering tail like a shooting star. A spirit.

Another memory took Murtagh away, and he was in the throne room of Urû'baen. His clothes were shredded, his body covered in wounds and drenched in blood, but his own suffering did not bother him. His only concern—his only thought—was the terrible shriek of his infant dragon as Galbatorix ripped through its mind and battered its body with ruthless magic. The king had made a promise to Murtagh. Now he and his dragon would suffer like this together forever, unless he submitted. Torn apart, healed, and then torn apart again.

Every single day for the rest of his life, Murtagh would listen to his dragon scream in pain. His own life did not matter, he could endure physical torture for a hundred years, but he could not accept such a fate for Thorn. When the dragon wailed again, his small body writhing on the floor, Murtagh screamed for Galbatorix to stop.

It happened so suddenly that Murtagh almost did not notice it. He saw himself and Thorn through someone else's eyes. What a mess he was, barely recognizable as human, and it filled him with great pleasure. He lifted his hand, a hand that was not his own, and spoke in a voice deep and cold.

"Swear fealty to me," he said through Galbatorix's lips. "And all of this will end."

Again Murtagh jumped back into his body on the plains near Du Weldenvarden, planting both hands on the ground as he threw up. The dark spirit hovered over him, and the black that made up its form was almost entirely gone. Light shone through it like the rays of light peeking beyond the horizon. Now the spirit turned its head, its shining white eye staring at him.

A wet streak chilled Murtagh's face as a tear rolled down his cheek. He blinked at the spirit, and even though he could have raised his hand and touched it, he did not fear it. Instead he let out a shaky breath and whispered, "That was not my memory… it was yours…" Pain ran through him as he rose, but he stood on trembling legs and met eyes with the spirit as it dissolved. "You were the spirits he enslaved. You…"

No longer did Murtagh want to destroy them. The spirits were as much captive to Galbatorix as he had been and filled with the same rage and sorrow. Rather, he wanted them to be free as much as he wanted himself to be free. Without consciously thinking about it, he raised his hand to the creature to touch it on its dissolving snout, and in response the spirit drew closer. Murtagh extended his mind once again into the spirit, tugging at the unraveling violet threads and approaching the shining white light concealed within.

It was a quiet, mutual agreement he and the spirit made. Murtagh pulled the violet threads upon himself, and the spirit's memories poured into him like an avalanche. Murtagh let out a single gasp as the first wave hit him.

Then, in a flash of black, a Lethrblaka tore through what remained of the dark spirit and shattered its body to dust. The Lethrblaka swooped up and circled the plain.

Murtagh was thrown back into himself as the connection was severed. "No!" he screamed, lunging forward. His fingers caught tiny flecks of darkness before they disappeared, and nothing of the spirit remained. Clenching his teeth, he turned on the Lethrblaka and stabbed at it with his mind. He met a wall of fierce resistance.

The Lethrblaka swooped low and settled on the ground, folding its wings. Upon its back sat Morzan, and in his upturned palm sat a quivering ball of white light partially eclipsed by dark matter. Three other spirits swirled around him, shining violet in the night.

"Thank you, my son," Morzan said, his lips in a wide grin, and then he curled his fingers over the spirit until it disappeared. The other spirits touched him and vanished under his skin.

"You…" was all Murtagh could mutter, his voice quivering. His entire body shook, and his fingernails dug into his gloved palms.

"Do not be troubled." Morzan rested his hands on the neck of the Lethrblaka. "When you stand by my side, my power will be yours." Then his eyes gleamed as they traveled from Murtagh to the dwarves and elves. His voice was pleasant as he added, "This power."

Morzan waved his hand, and then the entire plain and everything on it came undone. Elves, dwarves, and humans alike turned into black dust, little by little, from the tips of their limbs moving inward. The elves shot arrows at Morzan, but the arrows dissolved in midair and their bows vanished from their hands. Then they attacked with their minds, their eyes sharp and focused, lips sealed, and Morzan lifted his nose at them. Every last elf fell to their knees or fell prostrate on the ground.

Murtagh launched an attack into Morzan's mind and met the same resistance as before, and then Morzan crawled through Murtagh's own defenses and sent stabbing pain through his head that ran down into every muscle and sent him to his knees. Murtagh grabbed his head and gritted his teeth, biting back a scream.

"I warned you not to do that," Morzan told him.

Everything faded away as though devoured by an enormous shadow. Elves struggled to rise only to fall and dwarves rolled across the ground. Thorn lay sprawled in the grass, Selena beside him, and Brom knelt over them both with a hand on the ground to support himself. Parts of their bodies disappeared into the darkness, entire arms and legs gone in a matter of seconds. All the while, Morzan remained perched on his Lethrblaka without lifting a finger.

Amidst the darkness, rays of sunlight flashed across the sky and lit the wispy clouds bright cherry and gold.

Murtagh stared at the growing light and the colors that whirled together in his hazy vision. Then, he stomped a foot on the ground and pushed himself to his feet. Pain tore through him and every muscle tightened in revolt, but still he lifted his head. He set his eyes on his father, narrowed his attack like the sharp point of a sword, and drilled into Morzan's head with his mind. It was straight and quick and made Morzan flinch. Nevertheless, he met barriers that could not be breached.

It was not Morzan Murtagh intended to cripple. He skirted the walls in his father's mind until he found the outflow of magic that ripped the world to pieces. It was quick now. Murtagh tugged the magic apart at its foundation and rewove it into a spell of healing, like untying a string and then tying it again into a different knot. All of the damage Morzan had done reversed itself, and gradually the world fell back into place.

Morzan raised an eyebrow and then slid off his mount. Wherever his feet touched, the grass in a small radius around him withered and died. He strolled across the plain and stopped at a slight distance from Murtagh, and his voice lowered, keeping his words between them. "Why do you protect those who hate you?" Then his tone softened further, like a father speaking tenderly to his child, and asked, "Why are you killing yourself for people who do not want you to exist?"

Murtagh choked on a breath and took a step back. His concentration failed and the restoration magic he used to heal the others failed along with it. Morzan did not care about him, not in the slightest, but his was a reminder that no one else did, either.

It was a temporary pause, but Morzan took advantage of it and twirled his finger in the air. Magic grappled at all others present, at the elves, dwarves, and humans, binding them to the ground with imaginary chains—chains that for some reason Murtagh could see. Then his father took a step forward and Murtagh took a step back. Morzan tried once again to initiate his spell that tore apart the land, and Murtagh stabbed at him again before he could even touch a blade of grass.

"Your mental prowess is impressive, perhaps rivaling Galbatorix. It would be a terrible thing to waste by killing you," said Morzan, and now he spoke again with pomp and grandeur, loud and theatrical. His eyes gleamed and his lips curled in a grin, and he unleashed a slight laugh that sounded something akin to glee and an agonized groan. "But like all fools, you allowed yourself a weakness."

Slowly Morzan turned his head, and Murtagh followed his gaze to the crisp azure sky. Faint in the growing light were the silhouettes of what could only be dragons, or something of their shape, one ahead of the other. And as they approached, the first glinted like an emerald. Murtagh's entire body sank from an oppressive weight.

Arya's dragon called Fírnen swirled towards them, fire curling between his teeth, and an enormous Lethrblaka followed right on his tail. Yet before either could do anything, Morzan raised his hand and bent his fingers in. Fírnen's wings twisted and the dragon crumbled to the ground, rolling several yards before coming to a stop, lifeless. The Lethrblaka shrieked and swung back into the sky, circling, watching, and waiting.

Morzan kept his hand lifted and moved it in the air without expression. Eragon was yanked out from underneath Fírnen by invisible hands, hung in the air with his chin up and hands clawing at his neck, and then he was carried the short distance to Morzan's side. Morzan turned his wrist, and Eragon was thrown to the ground between him and Murtagh.

"Behold," scoffed Morzan. "Your weakness."

Mutters arose from those all around them, and Selena called out to Eragon with a voice that wavered in pain and sorrow. No one had the strength to rise. Murtagh blinked down at his sibling, and Eragon looked up at him and gasped for air with one hand clasped at his heaving chest.

"Bend your knee to me, my son" Morzan ordered, and he squared his shoulders and stood tall. Then he drew Zar'roc. "Or I will put a blade through his heart."

Muttering became desperate shouts. Selena wailed and Brom yelled. The dwarves scrambled to their feet only to fall again, and the elves did the same. Morzan's grin stretched wider. It was all intentional—waiting for Eragon, causing their reactions. When Murtagh was in danger, no one raised a voice, but if it was Eragon, everyone lamented. His father was a shrewd and wretched man.

Morzan chuckled, twisting Zar'roc in the air and catching sunlight on the crimson blade.

Yet as a familiar ache gnawed at Murtagh's heart, Eragon shook his head. "Don't do it."

Murtagh met eyes with Eragon. It was one of the first times his younger brother looked at him without pity, hatred, or fear. There was something warm in his eyes, something meaningful, and Murtagh did not know how to properly place it.

His muscles protested as he bent his knee and lowered himself to the ground in front of Eragon. The shouting subsided and Morzan's eyes brightened. But Murtagh kept his focus on his brother, and he reached out and clasped Eragon's shoulder in one hand and squeezed.

"Don't do it," Eragon whispered through gritted teeth. Tears rimmed his eyes. "Not on my account."

"I would," Murtagh assured him, and he smiled. "In a heartbeat, Brother." He gave Eragon's shoulder a shake, allowing the words to settle, and then he promised, "I will always have your back."

Eragon's lips parted, but he did not make a sound. His eyes widened. Murtagh did not let him go as he extended his mind into the heavens, as he grappled with silent magic and the threads that bound the land of Alagaësia together. Then, when he was certain he would not fail, he lifted his eyes beyond Eragon to his father.

"I will never submit to you," he said, his jaw set.

Morzan's mouth twitched down. He twirled Zar'roc one last time and then held the sword steady. "Wrong answer."

Then Morzan thrust the crimson blade forward and aimed it straight for Eragon's heart.


	26. Fading

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading, commenting, kudos-ing. I appreciate you all so much!
> 
> Fun fact: in the fourth book, Murtagh frees what appear to be spirits from Galbatorix when he uses the Name of Names against him. That scene may or may not have been the premise for this story, ahem.

 

* * *

As Morzan thrust Zar'roc at Eragon, Brom and Selena shouted in unison, and the elves and dwarves roared with as much ferocity as a dragon. Murtagh did not waver, his mind focused. And as the blade reached Eragon's back, it slipped into a void and then reappeared behind Morzan as though severed in two. The scarlet blade tore through Morzan's shoulder, and he let out a gasp before yanking the sword back. It slipped out of the void and returned to itself with blood along its gleaming edge.

Eragon only blinked at him, and Murtagh shoved him to the ground as he rose to oppose his father. He stepped between them, Morzan and Eragon, and planted his feet in a wide stance. One foot slipped forward as he drew the elven sword from the sheath at his side.

Touching his wounded shoulder, Morzan laughed. It was a superficial wound at best. "You missed."

Murtagh tugged on the threads again, his mind focused and unwavering. "He won't."

Morzan only had time to raise an eyebrow before the shadow fell over him. The giant Lethrblaka dipped out of the sky, claws extended, and tackled Morzan with its full weight. Together they rolled across the plain before the monstrous creature was thrown aside with magic, and then the Lethrblaka that Morzan used as a mount lunged across the field and engaged it in battle. The two dark creatures flipped over each other, pecking at necks and bellies with lethal beaks, and their wings flailed in the air.

Murtagh kept a firm grip on the Lethrblaka's mind and guided it in battle even as he sidestepped a slight circle around where Morzan had fallen. His father popped right back to his feet, no worse for wear, brushed himself off, and tugged his black tunic into its proper place. One hand he swept across his slick black hair while he straightened Zar'roc in the other.

"You are clever," murmured Morzan with half his lips turned up in a smile, but his eye twitched. "Soon that head of yours will be mine."

"I highly doubt that," Murtagh answered.

Turning his sword in hand, Murtagh dove forward, closing the gap between them. His thrust was parried by the blade of Zar'roc, but he used the momentum from the block and spun his entire body around, swinging from the other direction. Morzan countered, his eyelids sagging as if the fight bored him. Their blades clashed in a vibrant display, brilliant sunlight flashing off their swords.

Beyond them, the Lethrblaka under Murtagh's control snapped the neck of its opponent and turned its sights to Morzan.

However, Murtagh's strength ebbed away as time and fever took their tolls. His vision blurred, and his control wavered just enough that the Lethrblaka tilted its head and snapped its beak at them. As Murtagh was, he had little hope of winning. Eragon had gone to Fírnen and took up a green sword. But this was not a fight a human could win, and everyone else was still weak and broken.

Morzan swung at Murtagh and forced him to defend, and sparks showered his face as the blades met between them. His father grinned across Zar'roc and said, "You tire, my child. Surrender… and rest."

His stomach churned at Morzan's words, and Murtagh snarled, "I am not your child." Then he ducked under the blades and kicked his father in the stomach.

It was a maneuver that would not work twice. Morzan caught his ankle and pulled him off balance, and then he thrust Zar'roc into his shoulder as he hit the ground. The blade tore straight through flesh and muscle and pinned him into the earth. Pain like liquid fire in his veins coursed through his chest and arm.

Morzan retracted the sword and stepped over him, planting his heavy black boot on Murtagh's wrist to keep him from using his sword. The Lethrblaka roared and jumped at them, but his father caught it midair with the flick of his finger and sent it flying into a sparse patch of dead trees. Then a green blade soared past his head, and Morzan leaned aside, caught Eragon with invisible hands, and hoisted him once again into the air by his neck.

"I will take everything you love," Morzan swore to Murtagh, and he remained stone cold and expressionless even as he strangled the life out of Eragon. "And then I will take my proper place upon the throne of Urû'baen… Within days, the capital will fall to me."

Shouting covered the plain again, and Morzan clenched his fist and made Eragon release a choked cry. Eragon kicked at the air and clawed at his neck, and the color drained from his face. Overhead, over a dozen Lethrblaka came from the far ends of the earth and circled the plain, drawing ever closer. Even with magic and one Lethrblaka, it was a fight that could not be won.

Murtagh pulled his arm but could not free it. Despite his injured shoulder, he snapped his other hand back and grabbed an arrow from its quiver and slammed it into Morzan's boot. His father yelled and stepped back, then swung Zar'roc to sever his hand. Murtagh tugged on faint threads of magic and toyed with space, same as the spirits had done in the dragon's keep, and a black hole appeared beneath Morzan's foot.

Morzan tumbled backwards, and Murtagh expanded the magic wide enough to devour his body. As his father fell and disappeared into a void, he closed the hole behind him. Rising to one knee, Murtagh ripped open the air beneath each Lethrblaka as they swooped to attack, sealing them away in an abyss until none remained.

Then his hands held the ground, and it was all that kept him upright. Sweat ran down his face, matted his hair to his head, and drenched his clothes. Sweat mingled with blood ran down his arm in a steady trickle. As the reality of danger subsided, his vision blurred until little was recognizable beyond his own hands, and his stomach twisted into a tight knot. What little was left in his stomach he threw up on the ground.

Behind him, Eragon dropped out of the air, coughing and gasping. Yet in a matter of seconds, his sibling reached his side and was holding his injured shoulder and clasping his arm. Eragon spoke in breathless spurts, and it took several attempts before Murtagh understood that he was asking, "Are you all right?"

A whirlwind of activity followed that Murtagh struggled to keep up with. Brom and Selena came to their sides and searched Eragon for harm before sending him to check on Arya and Fírnen, who stirred for the first time since their fall. Selena had not the strength to heal Murtagh's wound and did her best to bind it, and Thorn came to him and patted him all over as if to put him together again.

Elves rose and limped to Arya's side. All were devoid of color like wraiths, and none used magic. Morzan had not killed them but had stripped them of their power. Meanwhile, the dwarves were just as pale and listless.

At least they were alive.

Murtagh forced himself up and staggered towards the Lethrblaka that had collapsed in the trees. By his mental summoning, the black creature rose and shook itself off, spreading its wings. It bowed its head to him. One of its eyes was completely scarred over, and in its head was a rather large stone.

Before he reached its side, Thorn caught him and held him back, and Selena did the same.

"Where do you think you are going?" Selena asked, and she slipped under his arm to support his weight. Immediately her face contorted and she recoiled from him. "Your fever!"

Eragon approached next, his brow furrowed. "Murtagh—"

"Ilirea is next," Murtagh stated, and he yanked himself away from Thorn and stumbled to the Lethrblaka. He could hardly breathe, and his lungs burned from lack of air. "I won't allow it."

"You will kill yourself if you keep pushing yourself so hard." Selena tailed him.

Not before he finished this, but Murtagh kept that to himself. He went to the Lethrblaka and gripped its thick hide. Riding it would not be fun, but it was nothing a little magic could not fix. Rather than create a constant barrier over its jagged skin, Murtagh melted its back into a smooth surface suitable to sit on. The Lethrblaka did not flinch and instead lowered its wings.

"Murtagh!" Selena grabbed him and turned him around, clasping both of his shoulders. Concern welled up in her eyes. "You will help no one if you are dead."

Elves and dwarves alike were staring at them.

"I will help no one if I am too late," Murtagh snapped. He did not want to hurt her, but he had to keep moving.

Yanking himself out of her grasp, he spun towards the Lethrblaka and froze. Eragon and Thorn sat upon the creature's back, both with fires ablaze in their eyes. Eragon now had a sword fastened at his side. Murtagh made a noise and shook his head. No one could fight these things, and everyone, humans, elves, dwarves, and even  _dragons_  were nothing but helpless victims before Morzan. He could not— _would not_ —allow them to get hurt.

"Get off," he said, and his voice trembled. He would throw them with magic if he had to, but doing so might make him faint. Keeping hold of the Lethrblaka was already challenging enough.

"No." Eragon's tone was fierce. "I will help if I can—"

"You can't help! You are human!" Murtagh yelled, and he hated saying it.

Everyone just kept staring.

Shadows fell over Eragon's face, and he flinched as if he had been stabbed. Murtagh had hurt Eragon before, but that was back when Galbatorix had bound him to slavery. Now he did so by his own nature and will. Murtagh swallowed hard to keep from throwing up.

Thorn made an equally wounded face, but surely he understood. He knew Murtagh better than anyone else. Murtagh would do whatever it took to keep those he cared about safe, even if it meant leaving them behind. Or perhaps Thorn did not understand quite as well as he thought, for tears filled the child's eyes.

Murtagh dropped his head and held the heel of his palm to his forehead. Everything hurt, and if he did not move soon, he  _would_  collapse.

"Stay out of the way," he said, and though he meant it as a plea, it came out harsh. Neither Eragon nor Thorn was impressed. Murtagh had to look away. "Please."

When neither moved, he climbed on the Lethrblaka and turned his back to both of them. He could not bear to be the reason either died. Not again, not after Tornac.

Fírnen finally stirred, but his entire body heaved on the ground and his wings remained low. He whined deep in his throat. Arya stood but barely. They could not count on dragons or elves to aid them now.

Murtagh shook his head again, this time to himself. His father would not do this again. He urged the Lethrblaka to move, and it did. When it spread its wings and burst off the ground, Thorn and Eragon had no choice but to wrap their arms around his waist for stability, and both clasped the fabric of his garments with tight, shaky fists.

"We will come after you," Selena called out, and then she turned and ran back towards the edge of the forest. Brom ambled behind her.

All the while, Murtagh kept shaking his head.  _His_  father was doing this. Everyone was in danger because of  _his_  father. And his father did all this because of  _him._  Murtagh was the target. What Murtagh loved was the target.

Tears stung his eyes. No, he had to finish this before anyone else got hurt. Firmly he decided this in his heart.

Spinning the Lethrblaka in the air, he set their course for Ilirea.

No one said anything for the entirety of the trip.

\-----

It took only a few days to reach Ilirea, but they were too late.

A great battle raged within and beyond the walls of the capital city, which was cloaked in a great shroud of black fog. Murtagh navigated the Lethrblaka through pillars of smoke and took in the turmoil below. An enormous army pounded on the gates of the city with battering rams and launched flaming stones over the walls with catapults. The walkways and towers connected to the walls had been abandoned, and many foot soldiers climbed makeshift ladders to infiltrate the city.

Within the walls, another skirmish raged. Towering bodies armed with swords and cloaked in black hacked their way through the defending human army. Sharp beaks peaked out from beneath their taut hoods, and the bodies hobbled with bent legs and bulging backs.

"Ra'zac," Eragon growled through gritted teeth.

Murtagh shifted the Lethrblaka down and approached the city, alighting upon a high wall that was an exceptional vantage point for the battles raging inside and out. Before Murtagh's feet even hit the stone walkway, soldiers clad in crimson and armed with spears rushed out of the towers on either end.

Eragon hopped off the Lethrblaka and drew his sword. "I can handle this. Do what you have to do." Without waiting for approval, he spun aside and resisted the approaching soldiers, battering them and disarming them but never killing them.

As long as magic was not involved, he would be okay.

Thorn slipped off their dark mount and lingered by Murtagh's side, and he kept his hand on the dagger Murtagh wore at his hip.

Murtagh gave his full attention to the army outside the city walls, and he allowed his mind to glance off the consciousnesses of the soldiers. As expected, there was nothing to them, not a thought of battle or anything at all. Spirits had stripped them of their free will.

He delved deeper into the void until threads took shape that entwined every living thing to every other living thing. Some were thin and others thick and unbreakable, some shone with light and others were faint and fading. All of the strings had purpose and meaning that no one, not even elves or dragons, could hope to understand.

Murtagh searched only for what he needed, the single thread that pulsed between soldiers and rushed energy to a core, central being. Having done this once before, it was easy to locate and follow, and then he caught hold of it with his mind and gave a fierce, mental tug. Below, an entire army of soldiers staggered to the ground or fell off their horses and lay strewn across the field without moving. Shadows coalesced over them into the massive form of a dark spirit.

"Th-that one is enormous!" Thorn gasped, and his hand slid from the dagger to the back of Murtagh's jerkin, giving it a tug. "How?"

The dark spirit stood at least twice the size of the others, and it had morphed entirely into the shape of a Lethrblaka, complete with an enormous beak and broad, powerful wings. Its eyes flashed white like raging lightning amidst black clouds.

"They are feeding off the world," Murtagh said, and the dark creature turned its head and blinked at him with a single, piercing eye. "The more they take from the land, the stronger they become."

"Be careful." Thorn then clung to him like any frightened child might cling to their parent, and Murtagh smiled despite the situation.

Spreading its wings, the dark spirit leapt off the ground and circled the city, shrieking a cry like hundreds of human voices screaming together, and then it swooped over the wall where Murtagh stood and landed on the tower with a heavy crash. Part of the tower collapsed under its weight, and what fell apart turned to black dust and disappeared. Knights screamed, abandoned their fight with Eragon, and jumped over the side of the wall. Eragon took several steps back and then made the wise decision to turn and run behind Murtagh. Below, on either side of the wall, people were shouting and fleeing.

With a shriek, the spirit lifted its head high and opened its maw filled with darkness, and Ilirea, the surrounding plains, and all of the humans began to turn to dust. Murtagh moved closer to the dark spirit as he extended his mind into its consciousness. There was nothing there, only silence, and he pressed deeper and circumvented all its barriers until he found the source of its world-eating magic. Pulling apart the spell, he rearranged it so that the land would be put back together again. All of the black dust flitted back to where it belonged.

Murtagh took a step closer, and the dark spirit roared at him and crawled down the tower onto the wall, snapping its gaping mouth and wagging its long black tongue. Murtagh kept walking, one slight step after the other. It was time to turn its power against it.

Once again he crawled through its mind and twisted the threads deep within the spirit's being. Murtagh pulled the spirit apart at the seams and drew all of its black energy into him. It was not a spell or something that he understood, he just  _did_ it. The shifting darkness that made up its body rippled and then began to break apart and float towards Murtagh. Black fog devoured Murtagh as it settled on his skin like snow.

Yet the spirit resisted, and it screamed loud and fierce, forcing Eragon and Thorn to cover their ears, and then it assaulted Murtagh with its memories. Rather, it surrendered them to him, for it  _had_ to in order to be free. First it showed him every moment of torture he had experienced in Galbatorix's hands. He felt every bit of pain in his body as real as the day it happened, his torture and Thorn's alike. Murtagh did not lose his resolve.

Then the spirit slipped back further in time, forcing Murtagh to walk in Galbatorix's body as he commanded the slaughter of innocents and tortured traitors for fun. Anyone who knew the king knew of his bloodlust, but now it was a part of Murtagh. He grinned when his victims begged for mercy before he killed them, and he loved to watch them squirm. The louder the screams, the better. Decade after decade of torture and violence, and he was never satisfied.

Murtagh was suffocating and struggled to find himself again so that he was not lost in those memories. It was not he who was lost, though. It was the spirit that was drowning. In the darkness that was the spirit's mind, there was a speck of light, and Murtagh moved towards it. The deeper he went, the closer he got to it, the realer the memories became.

Sending off the Ra'zac and Lethrblaka to annihilate entire cities. Using magic to kill and maim. Torturing soldiers who even had a thought of doubt. Slaughtering dragons and Riders. Forcing an entire continent to submit.

Most of the body of the dark spirit dissolved until only the shape of a person remained. Cold tears rolled down Murtagh's face, and he reached for the spirit, both in reality and in mind. The person made of shadows recoiled, but the speck of light reached back.

 _I know. I understand,_  Murtagh said to it, though he could barely lift his voice.  _I understand, so give it to me._

One hundred years of memories of an evil king's reign washed over him, including every bit of his hatred and rage, until Murtagh staggered backwards and moaned. His mind was lurched back into his own head.

Then the last of the shadows disappeared, sinking deep under Murtagh's skin until no trace of it remained. Now in place of the dark spirit was a radiant orb of white light, and it burst out of the darkness with such strength that Murtagh had to shield his eyes. A soft white glow spread across the land like rushing water, healing the earth, raising soldiers injured and dead, and purifying the air of the lingering black haze.

The spirit, smaller now but still shining bright, flitted through the air, circled Murtagh, and then vanished into the head of the Lethrblaka under his control. Murtagh's hold on it was cut, and the Lethrblaka turned and faced him as he scrambled to control it again. Yet the creature bowed its head and gently folded its wings.

 _Thank you,_ said the spirit from the Lethrblaka's mind to his.

Burning warmth filled Murtagh from head to toe that did not originate from him, an indescribable sense of gratitude from the spirit that words would not properly express. And Murtagh wept because he understood better than anyone ever could. The spirits had been slaves of Galbatorix for decades, drowning in his malice, fading away. Yet somehow, they lived. Intimately, he understood.

Releasing a long-held breath, Murtagh stumbled backwards as all of the strength leaked out of his arms and legs. Thorn and Eragon ran to his side and caught him before he fell.

"Are you all right?" Thorn whimpered.

"Your fever…" Eragon had to pick up most of his weight and hauled him to the side of the wall so he had something to lean on.

Then the shrieking began.

As the sun blazed in now crystal clear skies, the Ra'zac flailed on the ground and clawed at their faces. Rather than flee or perish, the creatures took up their swords and rampaged through the city, blind and foolish, and slaughtered anything in their path. They were easy targets for the knights now, but the Ra'zac were strong and fast.

"Rally the troops outside," Murtagh said to Eragon. Despite fire in his joints and cramps in every muscle in his body, he stood. Black spots floated across his vision that he could not blink away, and his head throbbed as though repeatedly being beaten with a hammer. They had to end this quickly. "I will get the Ra'zac out of the city. It will be up to the rest of you to destroy them. Can you do it?"

"Take me to whoever is in charge," Eragon said with a nod.

They mounted the Lethrblaka again. Now controlled by the healed spirit, the Lethrblaka leapt off the wall and zipped over the army outside the city. A few arrows shot into the air but failed to reach them.

They circled several times until Eragon pointed out a group of cavalry soldiers among which was an extravagantly garbed man with a crown. "There! King Orrin!"

Swooping low, the Lethrblaka settled at only a slight distance, and the army charged at it. Eragon hopped to the ground in haste so the Lethrblaka could get into the air again before being overwhelmed.

Murtagh waited until Eragon was  _safely_  speaking with the king, and then he patted the Lethrblaka's neck. "To the city."

At his command, the Lethrblaka swooped over the wall, dodging a few stray arrows, and then landed with a resounding crash in the center of Ilirea. Knights scrambled backwards but remained engaged in their battle with the Ra'zac. Sharp beaks and silver swords clanked all throughout the city.

Murtagh glanced around and allowed his mind to reach out. Threads fluttered throughout the city, and a particular sort, black and dull, connected the Ra'zac to each other. They were scattered everywhere, but catching them would be easy enough. Projecting his voice with magic, Murtagh shouted, "Everyone, step away from the Ra'zac!"

Knights fell back perhaps more in fear from the booming voice in their heads, and during that slight moment of separation, Murtagh caught hold of the Ra'zac with magic and hoisted them off the ground. Even though it was a mental attack, his arm muscles throbbed as though they too played a role, and he raised his palm as if it would help support the load. His lungs burned, and he released a staggered breath. At least a hundred Ra'zac were yanked out of the city, and he carried them through the air and over the wall, and then he let them go.

Black tunneled his vision, and a deafening roar filled his ears. Thorn's hands grabbed his sides and tugged on his clothing for some reason Murtagh did not understand, and then the sky and the high stone walls were spinning around him.

Darkness followed.


	27. Negotiations with Royalty

Ra'zac flew over the wall and met a barrage of flaming arrows shot by Orrin's army. As the creatures fell, they were impaled on upturned spears, and those that managed to escape the lethal fall were immediately hacked down by swords and axes until not a single one remained alive.

Eragon exhaled, and his entire body sank.

After he met with King Orrin and spit out a brief explanation of what happened, he and the king had formulated a quick plan to do away with the Ra'zac. At least everyone remembered Eragon well enough after a year to trust what he said and to aid him, otherwise things may have gone less in their favor. Some of the knights collapsed on the ground from relief and exhaustion, and others cheered and clapped their hands in celebration. The city gates creaked open.

"That should take care of that," said Orrin from atop his horse, and he lifted his nose. "Now about those spirits—"

"Eragon!" screamed Thorn, and the child came running through the open gate with arms and legs flailing. Tears poured down his face, and he stopped at a distance. "Hurry!"

Eragon heard and saw nothing else. His breath caught in his throat as he took off in a sprint, closing the distance between him and Thorn in a matter of seconds. Thorn did not wait for him before running back into the city, leading him through crowds of knights and dazed civilians. In the center of the city was the Lethrblaka, its wings stretched into the air, and all around it was a small army of knights. Thorn ducked under their legs and disappeared into the crowd, and Eragon followed by shoving people out of his way.

Within the ring, Murtagh was collapsed at the Lethrblaka's feet, and countless spears were pointed in his direction.

"Get out of the way!" snapped Eragon, and he pushed past the last line of guards standing between him and his brother. He hit his knees at Murtagh's side and lifted him into his arms. "Murtagh!"

Murtagh's face was pure white and his lips tinged blue, and he gasped for every breath. Eragon unfastened the top of his jerkin and undershirt in the hopes that he would be able to breathe. Heat radiated from him like a fire even through his sweat-soaked clothing. Eragon cradled Murtagh's head and brushed his dark brown hair back and off his clammy skin. Thorn fell over him and sobbed.

"Stop pointing those things at him!" Eragon yelled at the guards as more shuffled into place with spears and swords at the ready. Pointing their blades at the Lethrblaka was one thing, but they were focused on  _Murtagh._  "He just saved your lives! Get help!" Eragon said, and his voice trembled.

"By order of the queen, we are to take him into custody," explained a knight. "He will receive healing in the castle."

Several knights stepped aside as a group of men arrived with a stretcher of dark leather and wood. They placed it on the ground and moved Murtagh out of Eragon's hands and onto it, though Thorn clung to him until Eragon pulled him away. Two of the men lifted the stretcher, one on each end, and carried Murtagh towards the castle, and handful of knights, armed and ever ready, walked a wide radius around them. Scraping armor echoed through the city streets.

Eragon rose and stared.

Thorn's lower lip quivered. Then the child turned on his heels and slammed his head into Eragon's stomach, knocking the wind out of him, and sobbed into his tunic. Eragon wrapped his arms around him.

With Murtagh gone, the knights turned their focus to the Lethrblaka. The dark creature blinked at them with a single eye, tipped its head forward as if to take a closer look, and then it spread its wings and took to the sky. A gust of wind poured over the city and made several people cry out. Eragon shielded his eyes as the Lethrblaka's silhouette eclipsed the sun. It circled the city high above but did not go far.

King Orrin approached on his horse with a select group of cavalry along with him. Knights and civilians alike bowed at his presence or tipped their heads out of respect. The king stopped just shy of Eragon and sat up straight on his horse. "I demand an audience with Lady Nasuada."

Eragon jumped at the firm tone of his voice and then recalled his own station. Straightening and squaring his shoulders, his face pinched in a frown, he said, "As do I."

"V-very well," responded a knight, and he patted his fist against his armored chest with a clank. Then he turned, and the remainder of the knights formed into two separate lines, one on either side of them, and led them towards the castle.

King Orrin moved without hesitation, and his guards went with him. Eragon allowed them to pass and then followed with Thorn in tow.

\-----

Over a week passed, and Eragon heard nothing from Nasuada. He and Thorn were provided excellent accommodations in the castle, including feasts of all the finest foods in Ilirea, warm baths, fine clothing, and private and extravagant rooms. Eragon wanted to appreciate it, but there was an incessant gnawing in his gut. While they relaxed like nobility, Murtagh sat in the dungeon. They were not allowed to visit, though on more than one occasion did Thorn try.

Brom and Selena eventually arrived on horseback with several elves to escort them. Arya was not among them.

Another afternoon came without word from Nasuada, and Eragon, his parents, and Thorn gathered in Eragon's room. Streaks of warm orange light spread across the floor from the window, and fireless lamps on the walls shone with a golden hue.

Eragon paced on a crimson rug with gold trim until it bunched up under his feet and started fraying on one end, and then he kicked it back into place over the stone floor. Selena leaned against a wall with her arms crossed, her expression forbidding, and she tapped her foot on the floor along with Eragon's footsteps.

"Calm down, both of you," Brom said. He sat on the enormous bed with plush crimson blankets, and he tugged at the golden strings of his rich green tunic. "Murtagh will be fine."

"He does not belong in the dungeon," Eragon stated. The rug was straight, but he kicked at the corner of it anyway and scuffed his new leather boot.

"For being the son of Morzan." Selena laughed, but her eyes were narrow. She had refused an elaborate gown after her bath and dressed instead in a knight's scarlet tunic and leather trousers. It suited her. "And for using magic to help others. Absurd!"

Thorn sat in the corner with his knees pulled tight against his chest. His ruby eyes stared at the fraying rug without blinking. As they spoke, he pressed his face between his knees.

"It is not simply for those reasons, is it?" questioned Brom, and he directed his gaze straight at Eragon. Eragon froze and stared at the red strings splayed across the floor. His father's voice lowered yet was calm as he said, "He was a servant of Galbatorix just as his father was."

Eragon opened his mouth to come to Murtagh's defense, but his oath prevented him from saying anything, good or bad. Digging his boot into the rug, he twisted it until the entire corner came undone.

Selena peeled herself off the wall and frowned at him, and he avoided her gaze. Finally she faced Brom. "How do you know?"

"The story we heard told in Ceunon," began Brom, and he smoothed his beard and heaved a sigh. "It was not about Galbatorix and Morzan but about Galbatorix and Murtagh." Then his attention went to the little dragon in the corner. "I thought as much when the elves called you  _Blödhskular_ … Blood scales. Beyond Du Weldenvarden, Murtagh said he understood what it was like to not have a choice." Planting his feet firmly on the ground, he sat straight and tall. "He was enslaved by Galbatorix, and that is how Thorn was able to hatch for him."

"Eragon," Selena whispered, and she approached him and extended her hand but did not touch him. "Is it true?"

Eragon stared at the floor and said nothing.

"And you are bound by an oath not to share his secrets," Brom concluded, and Eragon exhaled a laugh in response. At least the truth was out. His father folded his arms across his chest. "Tell me straight. Was it someone else you swore an oath to, or was it to Murtagh?" Again Eragon could not answer, and that was answer enough. Brom rose, and his lips hung down in a deep frown. "Not only does he have the blood of Morzan, but he served as the right hand of Galbatorix. Now he forces others to swear oaths of silence."

"It is not like that," Eragon asserted, and he spun on his heels to face his father. Brom's stern expression and posture crushed his resolve, and he sank into himself. "I swear to you."

"This empire and its people beg to differ." Brom did not waver even as Selena turned on him, too. "He is the son of Morzan—"

"Not by choice," interjected Selena, her hands curled into fists at her sides.

"And he is a servant of Galbatorix."

"Also not by his choice." Selena waved her hands in the air as she spoke, and her voice rose.

"That is not good enough," Brom declared, and his tone was low and chilling, demanding silence and attention. He received it. "He had a choice, and he chose incorrectly." His tone sank further, almost into a growl. "If Galbatorix demands loyalty, then you choose death."

Selena shuddered, and her face twisted into an awful scowl. "Are you absolutely—"

"Stop it!" screamed Thorn, causing all of them to shut their mouths and face him. Tears poured down his cheeks. "None of you understand!" Shaking his head wildly, he choked back a sob. Between gasps, he said, "But I know without a doubt. Murtagh would not have surrendered to Galbatorix if it had only been him… he would have chosen death, and all of you would have had your wish!"

His words hit hard, and Eragon could not catch his breath. Brom and Selena stared with wide eyes, and both sealed their lips. Brom sank just a little.

"No, he surrendered because of  _me_ ," Thorn explained, and he flinched as more tears fell. "His own torture meant nothing to him, he did not care if he lived or died… but when I hatched and Galbatorix tortured  _me,_  Murtagh surrendered." Whipping his head from side to side, he screamed, "Even now he suffers while I am treated with dignity and respect. But everything that has happened to him is my fault!" Then he buried his face in his hands and let out a dragon's roar in a child's voice.

Eragon stared. Words would mean nothing now, and so he did not bother. His chest ached for Thorn and for Murtagh, for the sorry circumstances fate had allotted them both. Yet the moment he thought to comfort Thorn, Selena stepped forward and knelt in front of the child.

Thorn continued shaking his head, his entire body trembling along with it, and he hiccupped and gasped for air between sobs. "…Curse this body… I do not know… why…"

"Yes, our emotions certainly can get the better of us sometimes," Selena said in a tender voice. Any trace of hostility was gone, and she looked and played the role of mother perfectly, her eyes gentle and lips in a soft smile. She unraveled him and lifted him into her arms, and he grabbed handfuls of her wavy brown hair as he nuzzled his head on her shoulder. "I think you and I should rest for a while. What do you think?"

Thorn sniffled and nodded, and Selena rubbed his back. Without a word to the others, she carried the boy out the door. Brom frowned at the corner where Thorn had been and sank back onto the bed, folding his hands between his knees. Eragon stepped backwards and fumbled for a chair at a small table near the wall, easing himself into it.

Neither spoke for a long while.

\-----

Nasuada summoned them late in the evening, long after Thorn had fallen asleep.

Eragon and his parents were accompanied to the throne room by a host of guards, and waiting for them inside were Nasuada and an assortment of knights and council members of high ranking. King Orrin was there with his closest group of knights, as were several elves.

In great detail, Nasuada explained the current circumstances to them as she knew it, including how Orrin's army had been overwhelmed by spirits and led to attack Ilirea. Many atrocities had been committed by the enslaved armies, though no one went into greater detail than that.

Then Eragon explained everything he knew from the moment he woke in Alagaësia until the present, with Brom and Selena supplying information as needed. Nasuada listened without reaction, her hands folded over her luxurious jade gown. When he finished, she remained silent, her lips pressed thin. Then her rich brown eyes softened just enough for him to notice.

"It seems despite all of our greatest efforts, you have remained several steps ahead of us," she said. "On behalf of everyone you have sheltered from harm, I thank you."

Eragon swallowed hard. He should not say it, he knew better, but he could not help himself. "You should be thanking Murtagh."

Nasuada's lips tightened. A few knights murmured, but the room was otherwise quiet.

Brom took advantage of the silence and stepped forward, tipping his head in respect. "Lady Nasuada, I thank you for your hospitality. I have one request, if you will hear it."

"Sir Brom," she answered, and she smiled, her eyes shining. "You are a most honored and respected guest. Do not lower your head in my presence. Please, state your request, and if it is within my power, I will grant it."

Lifting his head, Brom looked her straight in the eyes. "I request that you release Murtagh Morzansson to me."

Eragon and Selena both whipped their heads in his direction, mouths gaping. Guards and council members alike muttered behind their hands, eyebrows pinched together and foreheads wrinkled. Nasuada let out a puff of air, her eyes wide, and then she gathered herself. Meanwhile, Brom stood tall and did not waver.

"He is safe within my prison," she assured him.

"I have no doubt of that, my lady."

"Then for what purpose do you request his release?" Nasuada's shoulders rose and her elbows pinched her sides.

"He is the son of my sworn enemy," explained Brom, and he regarded all of the knights gathered around with a sweep of his hand. "Is it not my right to do with him as I see fit?"

Oppressive silence came upon the room. No one dared speak. Eragon scrutinized the reactions in the room. Many knights were at least sympathetic towards Murtagh now, and they shuffled in place but held their tongues. Several others shook their heads in disbelief, and Eragon assumed they wanted Murtagh to be punished. Several of Nasuada's advisors turned away and muttered to themselves, and their expressions were unreadable.

Nasuada shifted. Eragon noticed her hesitation, her struggle to maintain her composure, but he doubted anyone else would. She said, "I understand that it was by your heroic acts that Morzan was slain. However, the prisoner is not his father. It would not be right of me to surrender him to you." There was a glint in her eyes that Eragon noticed now, and he resisted a smile. "Even though you are the man who freed the dragon Saphira and brought about the existence of the Varden, I cannot grant you this request."

"If he is not his father, then why is he condemned as such?" Brom smiled under his beard. It was not to Nasuada he spoke but to the people gathered around them, and it was a significant blow to their egos. "He has the blood of Morzan flowing through his veins. Again, I feel it is within my right to claim him. Release him to me."

More of the audience around them now sided with Brom. He  _was_  a hero after all, the man who killed Morzan, freed a dragon, and started the Varden. All their words were exchanged with intention. Yet Eragon worried it might have the opposite effect and that focusing on Murtagh's bloodline would only cause people to turn further against him. A few of the people in the room were under the impression Brom wanted to kill Murtagh, and  _that_  is why they agreed with him. It was a dangerous game they were playing.

"Allow me a moment, if you will," Nasuada said, and her gown rustled as she crossed the floor to her advisors. The gold clip in her braided hair sparkled in the light as she moved.

Eragon pressed his shoulder against Brom's and whispered, "Thank you."

"Not yet." His father crossed his arms. "If her council advises against it, she will decline my request. A foolish decision now may lead people to revolt."

"After everything he has done to protect the people," grumbled Selena. She set her hands on her hips and tapped her foot on the ground. If not for the murmuring throughout the room, it would have echoed. "What else must he prove?"

"His is a curse he will likely never escape," Brom explained, and his expression was grim. "His father was a cruel man."

Eragon pushed aside thoughts of the twisting scar on his sibling's back. Scowling at the floor, he said, "Murtagh knows that better than anyone."

Nasuada finished her discussion with the council and returned to them, her head held high. "The prisoner will be released to you only under the following conditions: he is to wear a band that seals his magic, and he is not permitted to leave the castle. Two guards will accompany him at all times. That is in addition to you, Sir Brom, as he is your charge now. Do you accept these terms?"

"I do." Brom remained perfectly impassive, but Eragon had to bite his lip to keep from smiling. "I thank you, my lady."

"Tomorrow we will determine his sentence," Nasuada explained. She was just as adept at indifference as Brom, though her eyes had a faint sparkle to them as she added, "For now, he is in your care." Waving her hand at one of her knights, she ordered, "Take them to the prisoner and release him to them."

"Your Majesty." Brom bowed and then followed the knight to the door with Selena behind him.

Eragon lingered a moment, and he smiled at Nasuada. He mouthed 'thank you' to her, and she in turn offered a tiny smile. Then she tipped her head before anyone else noticed. She wanted Murtagh's freedom, too. With a heavy weight lifted off his shoulders, Eragon exited the throne room and went to retrieve his brother.


	28. A Forced Sentence

Eragon hoped to find Murtagh in somewhat comfortable conditions, but a dungeon was a dungeon. They went down several flights of stairs to reach it, and the temperature plummeted the further they went. Water dripped off the stone walls into puddles on the floor. The dungeon was long and filled with dozens of individual cells, though most were empty. Eragon held his breath. The scent of spices and soaps hung in the air but did not do away with the lingering stench of blood.

At the far end of the dungeon, tucked away in a dark corner as if to be forgotten, was Murtagh. He was curled up in a scratchy-looking blanket and was shivering from head to toe. Only when the knight opened the door to his cell did he stir.

"Are you all right?" Eragon asked as he slipped inside, leaving Brom and the knight at the door.

Murtagh managed to sit up on the wood cot. On his neck he wore a thin chain like a tight collar, and attached to it was a violet gem. Its eerie glow was like the stones under Dras-Leona that could cut through wards—something that could cancel magic. Murtagh's bleary gray eyes ventured from the door to Eragon, and his voice cracked as he answered, "Never better." Both of his hands pressed down on the mattress, and his arms shook.

Eragon extended a hand to support Murtagh but brought it back to himself before initiating any contact. "Are you able to walk?"

"Yes," answered his brother without a moment's hesitation, his brow knit together as if even the suggestion of weakness offended him.

Murtagh slowly rose, wobbling on his feet, and then he stood straight. In the faint light it was difficult to tell, but what little color there was in Murtagh's face drained instantly out of him. Eragon stood at his side, just in case. Perhaps it was so noticeable against the cold, damp air, but Murtagh radiated heat like a hearth.

"Shall we go?" Brom stepped away from the door and waved his hand, ushering them ahead of him.

After the first several steady steps, Murtagh wavered, and when they reached the stairs and began their ascent, he held the wall. Sweat ran down his temples. By the time they reached the top, his ordinarily tousled dark hair was plastered on his face and he was wheezing. Regardless of whether he wanted to accept it or not, Eragon put a hand on his back and lent his support.

At the top of the stairs awaited Murtagh's guards, two knights in simple armor, each with a sheathed sword at their side.

Selena waited with them, and the moment her eyes landed on Murtagh, her expression fell from a smile into a harsh scowl. "What did they do to you?" Then she turned her accusing glare on the knights, both of whom straightened abruptly as though in the presence of their queen. Neither answered, but one cleared his throat. Growling, she faced Brom and said, "I had everything prepared in the room. Do you need anything else?"

"Nothing as of now, thank you." As he moved past her, Brom touched the small of her back and continued on down the hall.

Eragon smiled at their simple displays of affection. Selena followed them only so far as her own room and then disappeared inside, and they returned to the room designated as Brom's. It was identical to Eragon's room aside from one major difference: a wooden tub filled with steaming water was set up inside, along with a folding partition that concealed it from the rest of the room.

Brom pushed Eragon and Murtagh inside and then leaned his head out the door. "That will be all." Then he closed the door on the two knights as they started into the room. Their armor clattered together outside the door, and they muttered, but they did not bother trying to come in. Brom went to the far side of the room and pulled a pipe off the bedside table. After he filled it, he waved it in Murtagh's general direction. "Get cleaned up."

"We have food and medicine, too," Eragon explained, and he lifted a bundle of clothing off a stool near the tub. It was not particularly extravagant clothing, only simple linen garments, but they were clean and meant for comfort. He waved them at Murtagh, who stared at him with half-open eyes. "Then you can rest."

Murtagh rubbed the back of his neck, and then every part of him simply  _sank._  His head, his shoulders, his eyes, every bit of his body language suggested he wanted to be put out of his misery. Nevertheless, he stepped behind the partition and did as he was told. After much rustling of clothing came sloshing water and then momentary silence.

Meanwhile, Brom puffed on his pipe and leaned back in a chair.

Eragon sat on the edge of the bed with his hands folded between his knees. When the only sound in the room continued to be his father's deep inhales and exhales, he tapped his foot on the floor. "Murtagh, if you need anything, let me know."

Water splashed behind the partition, and Murtagh sighed aloud. "Stop worrying."

"I'm not," he replied, and immediately he sat up straight.

"Yes you are," insisted his elder brother with a hint of laughter in his voice, and then water splashed again. "Because you have a hero complex."

"I do not!" Eragon crossed his arms and stretched out his legs. Grumbling, he said, "You ungrateful boor."

Murtagh responded in monotone. "Pompous windbag."

Eragon's jaw unhinged. "Knave!"

"Cur." Another splash of water.

"Loggerhead!"

"Fopdoodle."

"Do tell me," interrupted Brom, making Eragon jump. He exhaled a ring of smoke and then tipped his head forward, looking up at him from under raised bushy eyebrows. "Are you two friends or enemies? Judging by this conversation, I am no longer certain."

Eragon's face and ears burned, and he stared hard at the floor. Yet his lips turned up in a smile. Friends once who were forced to become enemies but now they were brothers. It was one secret he wished more than anything he could share.

Much splashing was followed by rustling fabric, and Murtagh stepped out from behind the partition dressed in loose, pale garments, and his damp hair poked out in odd directions. Some of the color had returned to his face, but the dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced. He nearly bypassed the food on the table until Brom shook his pipe at him, and then he rubbed the back of his head and sat at the table. Rather than a feast, Murtagh had been provided a bowl of thick, steaming porridge. He wrinkled his nose at the first few bites but ate without complaint.

Brom waved his pipe again when Murtagh turned in his chair to leave the table. Beside his bowl sat a dark glass bottle and a matching cup only large enough to hold a gulp. Shoulders hanging, he poured a cup full of deep green medicine and then drank, and his entire body shuddered. Exhaling a growl and sticking out his tongue, Murtagh shook his head and then faced Brom again. This time the pipe was waved at the bed, and Brom smoked with a smile on his face, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

Murtagh's bare feet padded across the floor, and he climbed onto and abruptly sank into the enormous plush bed. Brom stared at him, jaw shifting, until Murtagh crawled under the blanket and set his head on the pillow. It only took a matter of seconds before Murtagh's eyelids fluttered shut and his breathing softened, though there was still a noticeable rasp with every breath.

Even with medicine and sleep, his fever did not relent. Eragon and Brom spent the night taking turns waking him and giving him more medicine, and by dawn, Murtagh's fever finally came down and they allowed him to sleep without disruption.

After a hearty breakfast, about mid morning, they received another summons from Nasuada.

Eragon dragged Murtagh out of bed and forced him to take medicine and eat, and all the while his elder brother remained quiet and compliant. He often stared at the wall and stopped moving, as if in a trance, and then he would shiver, blink, and then continue with whatever task was given to him. All of his movements were slow and small.

"Are you all right?" Eragon asked while they were at the table and Murtagh was eating.

Murtagh combed his hair back across his head and offered a slight nod. The shadows under his eyes and his pale skin suggested otherwise, but Eragon did not press him.

After Murtagh changed into less casual attire, they stepped out and found Brom, Selena, and Thorn waiting in the hall. Together, they set out for the great hall. All the while, two knights shadowed them in keeping with their orders to watch Murtagh.

Nobles and knights filled the throne room from one end to the other. A crimson runner ran from the ornate double doors all the way to where Nasuada stood before her royal seat. King Orrin and a few other nobles in rich robes and glittering jewelry stood to her right and left.

Eragon led the way down the aisle, ignoring all of the eyes staring at them, and paused at Nasuada. Now was not the time for informal greetings and friendly reunions, and so he bowed at the waist and then stepped aside. Brom, Selena, and Thorn did the same. Last of all came Murtagh, gasping and with a fine layer of sweat on his brow. He met eyes with Nasuada for only an instant, and then he bent his knee to her and bowed his head. Her dark eyes were cloudy, unfocused, and her lips were pressed thin. Eragon's stomach churned, and his fingers went cold.

"Murtagh Morzansson," began Nasuada, and though her voice carried with power and confidence, it was monotone and forced. "My council and I have long considered your actions and deliberated what course shall be taken to serve justice. It shall not be forgotten that you aided Eragon in his early travels, played a vital role in the defeat of Galbatorix, and fought to defend the people of the Empire against our new foes."

Then she inhaled until her shoulders rose, and her eyes slipped off of Murtagh to the floor in front of him. "However, we cannot so easily forgive for the lives you have taken in the name of Galbatorix, whether by your will or not. Dwarf King Hrothgar, Dragon Rider Oromis, Glaedr, and countless others were slain by you. Furthermore, your recent use of magic shows contempt for the law of the Empire." Lifting her head, she stood tall, but her hands clasped at the front of her crimson gown. "What say you about these accusations?"

"I accept all of the charges against me," Murtagh answered without hesitation, without moving.

Nasuada wrung her hands together and then clasped her gown again. "Acts of treason such as you have done are punishable by death. Do you understand?"

"I do," he said without wavering.

Eragon's hands squeezed into fists, and every bit of him shook. He leaned forward, his foot sliding so that he might intervene and speak in Murtagh's defense, but Brom caught his wrist and stopped him. His father shook his head.

"Yet as I said," continued Nasuada, her tone and pace of speech unchanging. "We have taken into consideration your favorable actions. Death, though deserved, will not be your sentence." As she spoke, her brow wrinkled and the corners of her lips fell. "Instead you will receive a total of one hundred lashes to be given at two separate times, fifty on each day. Healing is not to be administered beyond what is necessary for one week following the final day, until sunset on the seventh day. After that, you are absolved of your crimes." With a slight tremble in her words, she asked, "Do you accept your punishment?"

Murtagh lifted his head and met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "If Her Majesty believes it just, then I accept. However, I have one request. Please administer the full one hundred lashes at once. Alagaësia is in peril, and I want to help."

"It is not right to give one hundred lashes at one time," Nasuada responded, lifting her chin. "Yours is not a death sentence, and such a punishment risks mortal injury."

"I will survive," he told her, his jaw set. "Please."

Nasuada closed her eyes for a moment, and her hands finally settled at the front of her gown. Then she met his gaze again. "Very well. Tomorrow at sunset, you will receive a total of one hundred lashes. Seven days from tomorrow, after sunset, you will be free."

"Thank you." Murtagh dipped his head again.

"You may go. I will send for you tomorrow," she said, and then she waved a hand at the two knights who accompanied Murtagh, as well as Brom. "Please escort him out."

Murtagh rose, lingered only for a moment, and then he turned and headed for the door.

Eragon stared at Nasuada, his heart hammering in his chest, heat rising up his neck to his face and all the way to the tips of his ears. His teeth were clenched so tight they hurt, and he shuddered. He stepped straight towards her and halted only when Murtagh caught his shoulder and spun him around. His elder brother gripped his arm and hauled him down the crimson rug.

"Let me go," Eragon growled, his voice shaking.

"Be quiet," Murtagh responded.

Knights opened the enormous doors of the throne room and allowed them to exit. Brom and Selena went first, followed by Thorn who kept glancing back, then Murtagh dragging Eragon. Last of all came the two guards. The moment they were outside and the doors closed, Eragon yanked his arm free.

"This is absurd!" he shouted, and before he could say more, both Murtagh and Brom pulled him away from the door. Eragon was dragged down the hall and around a corner before either let him go. He shook his arms out of their grasps and took a step back. Without wavering, he yelled, "Why did you agree to this?"

"Let it go," demanded Murtagh, and he was still panting for air.

"No!" Eragon whipped his head back and forth. "You don't deserve this!"

"It is necessary." Stepping back, Murtagh leaned against the stone wall.

"This is why you avoided coming back," Thorn murmured, and he tugged at the front of his tunic. His lower lip jutted out, but he pulled it back in and bit it.

Eragon paced the floor and swept his hand through his hair. Then he waved his arm in the direction of the throne room. "I will speak with Nasuada. I will—"

"Nasuada is not the only reason for this sentence." Murtagh crossed his arms and tipped his head to the side. No matter what he did or said, his movements were slow and his tone quiet. "Nor are the others in that room. Everyone, both in the Empire and the Varden, know who I am and what I did, and they will expect retribution."

"For things you did against your will!" Eragon grabbed the front of his brother's shirt and gave him a shake. "No one else faced consequences like these!"

Murtagh said nothing at all, and he did not have to. No one else faced consequences like these because no one else was the son of Morzan. Eragon understood. His hand dropped and fell limp at his side. His mouth opened and closed again without producing a sound.

"Oromis and Glaedr," Brom spoke up, his words slow and calculated. He stood at a slight distance from them, with his body turned at an angle. To Murtagh, he asked, "Did you kill them?"

"I did as I was told to do," answered Murtagh in a hushed voice, though he did not hesitate.

Eragon screamed internally things that he could not speak aloud. Oromis was slain by Galbatorix manipulating Murtagh's body, and Glaedr was killed by Thorn. Not that any of it mattered, for the outcome of the battle likely would have been the same, but Murtagh did not need to accept every crime he was accused of, least of all when the blame absolutely fell on Galbatorix. It took everything in him to keep from shaking his brother again.

Brom's jaw shifted, moving his thick beard back and forth. "Let's go back to the room."

Then he slipped past them down the hall, his heavy footsteps echoing in the silence. Selena followed without a word. As they went, they stepped wide past Murtagh as though he was tainted and impure, someone to be feared and avoided. Oromis had been dear to Brom, and surely Selena was aware of this. For both of them, the news was dreadful, and it was something Eragon should have shared from his own lips. Curse Murtagh and his oath of secrecy.

Murtagh peeled himself off the wall, his head and shoulders low. He whispered, "I'm sorry," and then he set a hand on Thorn's back and led the bleary eyed, weeping mess of a child down the hall. The knights followed like their shadows.

Eragon cursed Murtagh aloud, but only to himself. He cursed him for the oath and for the secrets. But more than anything, he cursed him for his lack of will to fight. During all of their time together, Murtagh had lashed out against the world that held him in contempt, defying his association with Morzan and insisting he had no hand in evil affairs. Now, however, he bowed his head and accepted every accusation and every negative word without resistance. It was a strange revelation, but Eragon wished for the brother that fought back.

Shuffling his feet, he followed the others.

\-----

Eragon spent the remainder of his day exploring the castle on his own. He could not bring himself to face his parents or brother. Though he requested to see Nasuada, she sent a knight to reject him without explanation. Apparently  _she_  could not face  _him_. Eragon did not blame her for the situation. Even if she had allowed Murtagh to go unchecked, no one else in the Empire would have done the same. Murtagh was right when he said the whole of Alagaësia crafted her final decision.

After watching from the castle courtyard stars scatter across an inky sky, Eragon returned to his room and paced the floor. Sleep was a lost cause. His hands would not stop shaking, and he could have run several miles on sheer nervous energy. Exiting his room, he went to his mother's room and tapped a single knuckle on the door. No one answered, so he walked back and forth down the hall.

Murtagh's silent guards stood like lifeless statues on either side of Brom's door. Eragon offered a nod as he approached, and then he knocked.

"Come in," said Brom from within.

Eragon entered and pressed his back against the door as he closed it. Brom sat at the table smoking his pipe and reading a thick book with yellow, tattered pages. When Eragon searched the room and raised an eyebrow, his father pointed towards the far side of the bed. A head of dark brown hair peeked over the edge.

Slipping around the bed, Eragon stopped at Murtagh's feet. His brother was slumped against the side of the bed with a glass bottle of liquor in his hand. His eyes stared straight ahead, beyond Eragon, as if he was not there. Murtagh's face was deathly pale, and he shivered and panted for breath. Thorn sat at his side with his knees drawn to his chest and his face buried in his arms, and every once in a while he would quiver.

Eragon sat at Murtagh's side, his knees bent and his arms folded over them. He, too, stared ahead at the stone wall. "It won't make a difference, will it?"

Murtagh finally blinked, pulling his shoulder blades in, and then he sat up. He shook his head.

"Then why allow them to do it at all?" Eragon frowned.

"Nasuada pronounced sentence against me in agreement with her council and therefore is without blame," said Murtagh. He exchanged the bottle between hands. It was open, and liquid sloshed inside. "She can be criticized for leniency but not for inaction."

Eragon exhaled, and then he reached for the bottle and took it from Murtagh. It was heavy, and the liquor splashed to the rim. "You haven't had any?" Murtagh raised and dropped his shoulders. Eragon took a drink, and the liquid burned down his throat and warmed him from the pit of his stomach. He tipped his head towards Murtagh. "One hundred lashes is a lot to endure at once."

"I will survive." Murtagh bent his knees and stretched his arms over them.

"I have no doubt," said Eragon. "But why would you subject yourself to that?"

"We have an enemy that will not wait. Enough time has been wasted as it is."

"Not really." Eragon took another drink and flinched at its bite. He set the bottle on the floor between them. "You needed time to recover."

Murtagh snorted and leaned his head back on the bed. Then he turned his attention to Thorn who now snored at his side. His eyes were full of affection, and his voice was just the same. "He should not be there tomorrow. He already blames himself for things he shouldn't."

Murtagh and Thorn had much more in common than they probably realized.

Eragon nodded and said, "I will ask Mother to keep watch over him."

"Thank you."

Silence prevailed, but it was welcome and comforting. Eragon stretched out his legs and slid down against the bed, and Murtagh wrapped his arms around his bent legs and set his chin upon them. The bottle of liquor sat between them though neither touched it again. Crisp pages turned on the opposite side of the room, a subtle reminder that Brom was still with them, fully conscious and fully aware of everything they said.

Aside from Thorn, no one slept.


	29. Retribution

Eragon spent the better portion of the afternoon arguing with Thorn about not watching Murtagh's punishment, but the child was adamant about going.

After a bit of yelling, Thorn stomped his foot on the ground, crossed his arms over his chest, and stuck his nose up. "I will not abandon him. Now more than ever, he needs to know he is not alone. I  _will_  be there."

Then Eragon moved on to Selena and attempted to convince her to stay in order to keep Thorn away, but she refused just as much. Her reasoning was simple enough. "I will not stand between a dragon and his Rider."

And so, as the sun crept towards the horizon, they left the castle for the city center where Murtagh would receive his punishment.

Market stalls had been removed, and all that remained was a wooden post that had been erected for the event. Rows of knights stood guard all around it, spears and swords at the ready. A large crowd of people gathered, their expressions an equal mix of smug satisfaction and sorrow.

Eragon pushed through the masses until he was just behind a row of knights, as close to the post as possible. It was not to see Murtagh's suffering but to be there when it was finished. They would all be there, for Thorn, Selena, and Brom were right behind him. They waited until the sky turned hazy orange, and then the knights stood straight and the crowd muttered.

Murtagh was led by knights through a narrow aisle the crowd formed for them, and as he passed, people went silent. His eyes were always straight ahead, unwavering. His jaw was set, his shoulders were back, and his lips were sealed tight. Yet as they passed and he saw Thorn, his steady expression faltered. Murtagh met eyes with Eragon briefly and then looked ahead.

Eragon sank. He had let Murtagh down. It could not be helped, though, for their mother was right. It would be wrong to separate them. His hands curled into fists at his sides to keep them from shaking.

The knights led Murtagh to the post, and several others prepared the chains with which he would be bound to it. One of the knights asked him to remove his shirt, but he hesitated. When he finally pulled it over his head, several spectators in the crowd murmured, and Selena let out a muted gasp and covered her mouth. Eragon flinched at their reactions, for it was the very thing Murtagh feared.

"That scar," Selena whispered.

Thorn was shaking, and tears filled his eyes. His face twisted into an awful grimace. In a low tone unbefitting a child, he said, "A gift from his father."

Brom and Selena both glanced at him with mouths open, and then they returned their attention to Murtagh. Now clad in simple linen trousers and a chain around his neck that sealed his magic, Murtagh was fastened to the post by shackles on his wrists. Only slightly did he bow his head, and he set his feet apart.

A knight stepped forward with a scroll that he unraveled, and then he announced in a booming voice, "Murtagh Morzansson is hereby sentenced to one hundred lashes for the following crimes: unlawful use of magic in the Empire; involuntary allegiance to Galbatorix; involuntary murder of high-ranking officials of the Varden; involuntary murder of humans, elves, dwarves and dragons during wartime; and various crimes of lesser importance." Then he rolled up the scroll and stood tall. "Four men will carry out this sentence, twenty-five lashes each, and will stop only in the case of unconsciousness. The sentence will resume when the criminal awakens." Stepping back, he called out, "Begin!"

One of the knights came forward with a leather whip of many braided cords. He was without expression as he lashed the whip. It snapped against Murtagh's skin and left threads of red across his back. Each blow followed in quick succession, with one of the knights shouting the count so that there was no question. Murtagh closed his eyes, but his body did not move an inch.

After five blows, Thorn wrapped his arms around Selena and buried his face against her, and she wrapped him up tight. Her gaze fell to the ground. By the tenth blow, Eragon turned away. The sickening snap of leather on flesh was already too much to bear. Every muscle in his body was tight, and he shook. Tears stung his eyes. Brom set a hand on his shoulder. His father watched every blow Murtagh received, never once turning away.

Fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty. Murtagh did not cry out or even groan, and he did not lose consciousness. Each blow then sounded like someone slapping the surface of water. Ninety. Long shadows spread over them as the sun sank behind towering stone buildings. Ninety-nine. Eragon exhaled a shaky breath. One hundred.

"In the presence of witnesses, one hundred lashes have been completed," announced the knight with the scroll in his hand. "Seven days from today, at sunset, the criminal is released from all charges. Remove his chains."

Eragon turned. Murtagh's back was torn to shreds and bleeding. What was left of his skin was bright red and purple. Two knights unfastened the shackles on his wrists and extended their arms in expectation of him falling, but Murtagh caught the post with his arm and stood on his own. Several people in the audience murmured, and one of the knights took a step back with eyes wide. No one expected him to be awake nonetheless moving on his own.

Brom moved first to intercept him, and then Eragon ran and passed him by. Murtagh stumbled away from the post in the general direction the knights wanted him to go, and then Eragon caught him and toppled to the ground with him.

"I'm alright," murmured Murtagh, and he panted for air. He repeated it, but only loud enough for Eragon to hear. His eyelids fluttered and his chest heaved.

Eragon winced at the blood on one of his hands. Then he wrapped his arm around Murtagh's head. Thorn stood at a slight distance, bawling.

"He is my charge," Brom told the knights. He knelt and adjusted Murtagh's hips so that his back was straight while Selena moved his legs. "Take him to the castle."

Two knights nodded and scurried elsewhere, and within minutes they returned with a stretcher. It was the second time Murtagh needed to be carted off, though this time the harm had been inflicted by people who rather should have expressed gratitude to him. As they shifted Murtagh onto the leather stretcher, his blood dripping across the stone walkway, Eragon swallowed hard to keep from throwing up.

Brom patted Eragon's back as Murtagh was carried away. "Take a moment," he told him, and then he rose and followed the knights.

"It was not right." Thorn rubbed his face with his arm, sobbing between words. "It was not right."

Selena pulled him into her arms and stroked his unruly hair. "It is over. He can rest now." Thorn shook his head and buried his face against her, holding fast to her.

Eragon sat on his knees for a long while, well after dark and long after most of the crowd had gone.

His mother took one of Thorn's hands and one of his hands, hauling them both up and guiding them towards the castle. "We should be there for him. Let us return."

Neither argued.

\-----

Eragon sat in a chair facing Murtagh's bed, wringing his hands and often staring at the floor. Sometimes it was too difficult to watch. A healer had been summoned to tend to Murtagh's wounds, but because magic was restricted, all she did was dab on ointment and prepare to cover the injuries to stop the bleeding.

Thorn had been forced to move out of the way several times and was now curled over the blanket at Murtagh's legs, always close, often patting Murtagh as if to ensure he was still there. He had cried so long and hard that now he had no strength left, staring at nothing and blinking heavy eyelids. Murtagh was uncovered from the waist up and began shivering violently, so Selena had warmed the room with magic. Whenever she was not in the way of the healer, she would dip a small towel into a bowl of water on the bedside table and wipe the sweat off Murtagh's face with it. Brom sat on the far side of the room and smoked his pipe, always watching but never speaking.

"I should prepare another medicine," said the healer, and her brow furrowed as she inspected the injuries. "I will return shortly."

Then she wiped the blood off her hands on her apron and headed for the door. It opened before she reached it, and the healer was abruptly pushed out. Eragon sat up.

"Your services are no longer needed," said Angela as she entered. With one hand she supported a sack tied at her waist, and with her other hand she shoved the healer out the door. "Shoo!"

"Wh-who are—" started the healer, and then the door was slammed in her face.

Angela straightened, her curls bouncing, and then she rubbed her head and sighed. She took off her worn cloak and tossed it into a corner, then approached the bed. Previously concealed in her shadow was Elva, and the girl remained plastered against the door, her young face contorted and her nose wrinkled. She was taller now, and older—perhaps nine or ten. Her rapid aging still left Eragon breathless.

"What a mess they made of you," murmured Angela about Murtagh as she took the healer's stool at his side.

Unraveling the sack at her waist, she sprawled countless vials and herbs across the bedside table and bed. Without another word, she began mixing several vials together before spreading a thick paste across Murtagh's back. He flinched but did not wake up. Then she gently placed long strips of bandages over his torn skin.

"Angela—" started Eragon.

Angela shushed him and continued with her work.

Meanwhile, Selena dabbed Murtagh's face and neck with the towel, and then she smoothed back his hair with it, wetting the strands enough to keep them out of his face. Touching her fingers to his cheek, her brow wrinkled. "It will be difficult to keep him from becoming dehydrated. Losing blood and running such a high fever…"

"Is there no medicine for his fever?" Angela asked. She finished applying bandages and took the towel from Selena, wiping blood off her hands. Selena gave her the medicine they had been provided, and Angela took one smell of it and growled deep in her throat, her eyes narrow. "Infant's medicine! Pitiful. I will prepare something." Then she went to work with various vials and herbs, crushing and mixing in a small bowl she had brought with her, and hummed as she worked.

Eragon turned on his seat towards Elva, who remained fast against the door, her violet eyes narrow and cold. "You can come in. You don't need to stay by the door."

Even so, she did not move, and her gaze flicked from Eragon back to Murtagh. A storm raged in her eyes, and her entire body shuddered. In stark contrast to her young appearance, her voice was that of a grown woman's as she spoke, "I wonder if this is how Galbatorix was made."

"Elva," snapped Angela without looking back. She continued mixing feverishly, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Elva stiffened when all other eyes landed on her. She clasped the fabric of her worn cloak into her tight fists. "One can only endure so much suffering before they are either forced to fight back or die. Does anyone expect anything else?"

"Elva!" Angela's tone was harsh now, and she shot the girl a stern look. When Elva went silent, she returned to her work and poured a dark green substance into a vial. She shook the vial and presented it to Selena. "That should do. It will be safe enough for him to take whenever his fever rises. I will prepare more for as long as needed."

"Are you staying?" Eragon asked. "Does Nasuada know you are here?"

"Of course not," said Angela with a gleam in her eyes. "But I have my ways. Don't you worry." Rising, she packed up her supplies and fastened them into a sack at her hip. Her gaze lingered on Murtagh. "Do keep an eye on him. Elva is not wrong."

"You think he will become like Galbatorix." Eragon squeezed the edge of his seat, his palms damp with sweat.

"What I think is irrelevant." Angela crossed her arms and tipped her head back. "What do  _you_  think?"

Eragon swallowed hard. His voice wavered. "I think he has given up fighting back."

Unfortunately, if what Elva said was true, that left only one other option for Murtagh. Fight back… or die. Had his brother really lost all hope? A heavy weight crashed upon Eragon, and his head and shoulders sank. Had Murtagh any hope to begin with? The whole of Alagaësia held him in contempt since the day he was born.

Thorn turned his face into the blanket and wept.

"Keep an eye on him," Angela insisted, her eyes fixed on Eragon. "He is enduring a lot more than you realize for the sake of us all." Then, she gathered her cloak, swirled it around her shoulders, and pulled her hood up over her head. Elva did the same. Then they departed as quickly as they had arrived.

Eragon stared at Murtagh, and then he buried his face in his hands.

The rest of the night passed in silence.

\-----

Days passed uneventfully.

Thorn did not leave the room unless absolutely necessary and would have neglected food and drink if others did not provide for him. Unless he was told to do otherwise, he lay at Murtagh's side so that no space remained between them. Occasionally he would pet back Murtagh's hair so that it was out of his face. Once he nuzzled his face into the dark mess of hair on Murtagh's head and snorted what could have been a human sneeze.

Eragon smiled, and Selena laughed.

Medicine kept appearing at the door in large quantities, and the two knights guarding the room could never tell them how it got there. Angela was crafty indeed. Selena kept a vigilant watch over Murtagh's fever and gave him medicine as needed. Angela's medicine was far more potent and brought down even the highest fever with a single dose. Yet the fever never fully relented and came back just as high several hours later. It was a painful cycle of heat and sweating as the fever fell and violent tremors as it rose again.

Brom remained in the room often enough, smoking and reading. He had little choice in the matter, as Murtagh was still his charge until the end of the seventh day. Sometimes he would go out for a stroll but would return a short while later.

Murtagh drifted in and out of consciousness, and he was never particularly coherent. The injuries, fever, and exhaustion had crippled him.

Late in the evening of the third day, Brom rose from his place at the table and closed his book. "I am going to take a walk."

"I'll go with you," Eragon offered, stretching his arms above his head before standing. All of his muscles were in knots.

Selena patted his back as he passed, and he could not help but smile. She had the effect of stealing all the negative energy right out of him.

He followed Brom into the hall, his father offering a brief explanation to the knights and assuring them he would return shortly, and then they meandered together down the long stone corridors. Neither spoke. A few castle servants passed, their footsteps echoing long before their approach and long after they were gone. Eragon rolled his shoulders and sighed.

"You must be worried about Saphira," Brom commented, slowing his walk.

"Yes." Eragon nodded. Saphira weighed constantly on his mind, if she was safe, if she was well, and if he would ever see her again. What he had witnessed at the dragon stronghold was in line with what Murtagh assured him, but the empty, gaping hole in his mind—and in his heart—that Saphira's absence left him with did not allow him any peace. Barely above a whisper, he said, "Murtagh needs to be well enough to travel there." Then he stared at the floor and added, " _Everything_  needs to be well enough for us to leave."

"Regardless of the circumstances here, you may have to go." Brom stopped and faced him, gripping his shoulder. "Saphira is waiting for you, and having a dragon fighting with us may give us the advantage we need. Murtagh cannot do this alone."

"I know." Eragon hung his head, but Brom clasped his face in one hand and lifted it again.

"Everything will be all right."

Eragon believed him. He could not help it. With a faint smile, he said, "Thank you, Father."

Brom released him, and they walked on together and chatted about the past, about the future, about anything else that came to mind. Finally they reached a door where Brom stopped, and he tugged his pipe out of the pouch on his belt and waved it in the air.

"My source for refills," he explained with a wide grin.

Chuckling, Eragon stepped past and continued down the hall. He walked backwards and said, "I'm going to walk a bit more and then return to the room."

His father regarded him with a wave of the pipe, and then they parted ways.

Eragon went towards the throne room. Perhaps Nasuada would finally see him, though to that very day she had rejected every request. Rumors spread that she refused to witness Murtagh's punishment and sent others to do so on her behalf, and since then, no one had any information on her actions at all. Upon reaching the great hall, Eragon was rejected by the knights who insisted that Nasuada had already retired for the evening. With a sigh, he headed back.

Light footsteps echoed down the hall ahead of him and around a corner. When he turned the corner, he froze. She did, too. Nasuada exhaled sharply and took a step back, and her eyes flitted across the floor.

"Where have you been?" Eragon asked. "I have been trying to see you for days."

Nasuada took his wrist and hauled him around the corner, and then she leaned against the wall. Her eyes remained on the floor. "I apologize, but with everything going on throughout the Empire, the strange happenings, the attacks…"

"Instead of hiding, you could ask for help," he countered. When she did not respond, he hung his shoulders. It was not on her account that he was upset, and so he pushed aside his feelings. Surely she had enough trouble and sorrow without his added on. "Are you all right?"

Finally she lifted her eyes, her lips parted slightly. Then she tipped her head and whispered, "How is Murtagh?"

"Is that why you're here?" he asked.

She frowned at him, and then she looked away again. At least her casual attire made a little more sense. After supposedly retiring to bed, she was sneaking around the castle in a plain gown and no jewelry. Even her braided hair cascaded down her shoulders without beads or pins.

"He is doing as expected after receiving one hundred lashes." Eragon spoke softly, but a hint of resentment still wormed its way into his voice.

"I had no choice," she breathed, shaking her head. Their eyes met. "Eragon, I tried. If I could have…" Her head fell, and her shoulders did as well. Leadership was not an easy task.

Even so, Eragon's heart twisted in his chest. "Why does it matter?" Nasuada opened her mouth and closed it again, and so he continued. "Why does your lack of choice matter, but his lack of choice means nothing? His crimes were involuntary… why does that mean nothing?"

As he spoke, his voice cracked. Nasuada flinched as though she had been struck, and she brought a hand to her chest. It was not the effect Eragon wanted, rather he was not looking for a specific reaction at all, but it was a question that ate away at him, and he could not find a suitable answer. He was as guilty as anyone else. When Murtagh first told him the truth of his parentage, Eragon had hated him for it, and when Murtagh submitted to Galbatorix, it was simply him following in his father's footsteps. Eragon would have killed him if given the chance.

"I don't know," Nasuada whispered.

"I don't know, either, but I want to," said Eragon, and he leaned against the wall beside her.

Neither had to say more, and they simply remained in each other's company, miserable as they both were. Then a bell rang into the night, and Nasuada stood straight, her eyes wide.

It was their only warning.

An explosion and resounding boom shook the castle, and it was close. Eragon staggered off the wall and whirled around the corner, sprinting down the corridor. Nasuada was right behind him. Both knew. Knights were shouting down another hall, their clanking armor echoing in the corridors, but they were too far away. As Eragon came down the hall and saw the knights gone from Brom's door—and the door wide open—his stomach dropped. Brom stumbled out of the room he had vanished into earlier.

Eragon burst into the bedroom and put out his arms to keep the others back.

Brom's room was in ruins, the bed was split in half, and the far wall had fallen and given way to black skies. Standing before the gaping hole was Morzan with Zar'roc in one hand and Selena's arm in the other. Behind him, a Lethrblaka hung onto the battered wall of the castle with one paw clamped around Murtagh. Neither Murtagh nor Selena was moving.

"No!" Eragon charged at him but was suddenly hoisted off his feet by  _nothing_ and hurled into the wood table. It shattered beneath him, and pain flashed across his back and through his limbs.

Morzan grinned, lifting Selena over his shoulder, and stepped back against the Lethrblaka. His wild eyes landed on Brom in challenge. "They are mine."

Then the Lethrblaka dropped off the wall into the night air, and Morzan fell backwards after it.

"No!" screamed Brom, and he ran to the opening.

Eragon staggered and hit the wall hard, nearly flying over the edge. Nasuada caught him. The Lethrblaka swooped low and then zipped high into the air, its silhouette eclipsing the moon. In triumph it shrieked, and the bell continued to ring, creating an awful, dizzying sound. Armed knights poured into the room.

"Lady Nasuada—"

"Follow them!" she yelled. "Do not lose sight of them!"

A second Lethrblaka roared and fell over the roof of the castle, this one far larger than the first. It beat its wings to steady itself in the air, gazing into the cracked wall with its single eye. It barked at them and wagged its tongue, and then it turned in the air in pursuit of the other.

Eragon's heart caught in his throat, and he stumbled towards the door. "Follow that one! Follow that Lethrblaka! Horses, please!" Brom was right behind him.

A few knights rushed into the room and hindered their exit. They checked the knights that had guarded Murtagh. They lay slain on the floor in puddles of blood. Thorn was in the corner trying to stand up, his eyes unfocused.

Then Eragon lunged past the knights, out of the room, and took off running.


	30. A Shade of Red

Throbbing, searing pain woke Murtagh from sleep. Over and over again, pain stabbed through his back like hot iron daggers. Blood roared in his ears, and his heart hammered in his chest. Breathing took considerable conscious effort on his part, and every inhale sent another wave of agony through his body. Black and red spots pervaded his vision.

Over his head was a wood paneled ceiling, elegant in nature and expensive. He turned his head and grimaced as another jolt of pain ripped down his spine. His arm jerked in reflex, and leather snapped at his wrist and did not allow him to move. Slow and intentional, he tipped his head. His arms and legs were stretched and bound with knotted leather straps to posts at each corner of a stripped mattress. Aside from his linen breeches and the chain on his neck, he wore nothing.

"Murtagh," said a voice, distant and dreamlike. His head rolled and his eyelids fluttered. Then the voice spoke again, clearer this time. "Murtagh, wake up!"

In the corner of the room was Selena, her wrists and ankles shackled and the chains looped around a narrow stone pillar. Her hair was disheveled and her brow furrowed, but otherwise she was well. She turned around the pillar so she could face the bed, and her boot snapped broken shards of vibrant scarlet pottery. Sunlight struggled through a grimy window behind her.

It had been Murtagh's childhood bedroom in his father's castle.

"Are you alright?" Selena asked, her voice shaking. A puff of fog escaped her lips. "I can't use magic. I can't get us out of here. Murtagh—"

Something heavy slid across the door, like stone sliding across wood, and then the door opened. Morzan stepped in, and in both hands he carried a box of stone. Something was screeching and scratching away at the inside of the box.

Murtagh shivered, and Morzan smiled. His father set the box on a lone table on the far side of the room, and then he parked himself by the bed in an ornate chair of dark wood with scarlet accents. He crossed one leg over his knee and leaned back, his eyes crawling over Murtagh, and then he whipped his head in Selena's direction. She sank to the floor and trembled, her brown eyes a raging storm.

"When will you understand, Murtagh?" asked Morzan. "Have you not seen enough? These people hate you as they hated me, and that will never change. Live as a hero, die as a martyr, but no one will ever care." Setting both of his feet on the floor, he leaned forward. "I alone understand you."

Murtagh's tongue hardly moved, but he managed to look his father in the eye and say, "Go die."

Morzan shifted in his chair, his face calm and pleasant, and then he thrust a hand forward and caught Murtagh's chin, yanking his head towards him. Pain like fire rolled down Murtagh's back, and he bit back a cry. Then, Morzan leaned close enough for his warm breath to curl across Murtagh's face.

"You will submit to me," said his father in a whisper.

"I will not." Murtagh struggled to swallow, and then he jerked his head despite his own pain and snapped his teeth at his father's hand.

Morzan recoiled and slapped him, then grabbed his hair and held him in place. "Do you know why the spirits brought back Eragon's parents, and why they brought back me?" He shook Murtagh again, leaning close. "They hoped to exploit your weaknesses in order to capture you. Eragon's weakness is his family. Your weakness is your hatred and fear." Then, as if a loving father, he stroked back Murtagh's hair. "You are like me in every way. When you accept that, you will join me."

"Galbatorix could not convince me," Murtagh said through gritted teeth. "You will not, either."

"No, I know very well how you resisted him." Morzan rose and went to the table. When he lifted the stone box, the scratching intensified, and so did the awful screeches of the creatures inside. At first he approached the bed, and then he moved beyond it towards Selena. Murtagh choked on his own breath. "But I also know how you fell."

"You coward!" yelled Murtagh. He would  _not_  allow him to hurt her. The chain around his neck blocked his magic, and even when he reached with his mind for the spirit with him—or any tactic that might prove useful—his mind was sent reeling. Shaking, he hollered, "Pathetic excuse for a man that you are! No wonder you fell to a feeble old man like Brom. Even at your best, you were small in comparison to Galbatorix—and he perished. What chance is there for you to succeed?"

Morzan stopped with his back to Murtagh, but his head shook. With a laugh, he said, "What a clever child I have." Facing Murtagh, his lips hooked into a feral grin that bared his teeth. "Small? You think me small?" He set the box on the chair and leaned over the bed, one hand on either side of Murtagh. "Galbatorix enslaved twelve spirits. I will enslave thousands. He settled for an Empire, but I will settle for nothing less than the world." Morzan pressed a finger to Murtagh's forehead. "And you will serve me as you served him, you and the spirit with you. Do you know why?" Then he rose and stepped back. "Because you are too pathetic, too weak, to do whatever is necessary to win. If you had enslaved that spirit, it would save you now."

Then he waved his hand, and the door creaked. A man cloaked in shadows slipped inside and stepped into the dim light of the room, revealing eyes and hair the color of blood. His skin was translucent and drawn, and his body was haggard and gaunt. A Shade through and through.

Tears stung Murtagh's eyes. He knew him. He loved him. His voice broke as he croaked, "Tornac…" Then he yanked at the bands holding him and screamed at Morzan, "You wretch! You monster! What have you done?"

"The spirits brought back two for Eragon and two for you," said his father with a grin. The Shade took the box, and Morzan took a seat, crossing one leg over the other. "I merely took advantage of their failed attempts at quelling you. It is the difference between you and me, Murtagh. One must make use of  _every_  opportunity."

Tornac—the Shade—removed the lid from the box. Six different grubs piled on top of each other and strived for freedom, shrieking  _skree skree_ and flailing their legs. The Shade lifted one and waved it in the air, and the fat, whitish creature writhed, its underbelly quivering. Then he hung it over Murtagh's shoulder, and its hooks clawed at his skin. With Tornac's corrupted face in a grin, the Shade let go.

The grub fell, and all of Murtagh's muscles tightened. Fighting would only make matters worse, but it was impossible to relax as the creature's claws and teeth bored into his skin. It shattered into a dozen tiny green worms that burrowed under his skin, slithering over his shoulder, across his chest, and down his back. He gritted his teeth and growled, and it was the best he could do to keep from screaming. Then the Shade dumped the rest of the grubs over him, and they crawled in him and through him, ripping him apart from the inside out.

All the while, Morzan stared. "I will not allow you to die," he promised. Then he leaned forward in his seat, stroking Murtagh's hair. He whispered, "Am I small now?"

Murtagh snarled but was forced to close his eyes as one of the creatures crawled up his neck and to his face. Every movement under his skin, every bite, every trail eaten away through his body was like a sharp stab from a burning sword. His lungs were paralyzed.

Yet he did not scream, not from the pain. He would never give Morzan the satisfaction.

He endured for as long as he could, until his head was swimming and his vision blurred. Red flecks clouded his sight, but he scowled one last time at his father—who smiled at him in return. And then he blacked out.

_\-----_

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Murtagh's body and mind were numb. Every breath required his full concentration, and even then, he was suffocating. His head, his arms, his legs—every part of him refused to move. Even his voice was gone. Yet there was no pain. The brown of the ceiling boards swirled together.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Turning his eyes, red flashed across his vision.  _Tap._  Morzan sat in his chair with the sword Zar'roc in hand, and he poked the tip of the blade into the floor.  _Tap._  His father was grinning from ear to ear. Then he slid the sword into its temporary sheath and scraped the chair across the floor so that he was as close to the bed as possible. As if with affection—as if human at all—he ran his hand through Murtagh's hair and then caressed his cheek. Finally his hand came to rest on Murtagh's chest.

"Torture is not an effective means of gaining obedience," Morzan commented. "Least of all with you, Murtagh. I am no fool."

Murtagh made certain not to avert his gaze when his father leaned over him. Morzan clasped his face and stroked his cheek with his thumb, and Murtagh hated him more in that moment than ever before. The very things a loving father might do, things that Morzan never did before, now he only did to cause greater suffering. Every tender gesture was another stinging betrayal.

"You did not submit to the king because he tortured you," Morzan commented, his tone pleasant. "Your weakness was not in your own suffering. No, you only surrendered because of your dragon." He leaned close. Murtagh was fully alert now, and though his body would not move, his mind was raging. "You have many weaknesses now, don't you?" Then, his father's attention shifted back to the corner of the room, to Selena.

Morzan slipped out of his sight, his footsteps slow, and the chains that bound Selena clacked against the stone pillar. She released a muted yelp.

Murtagh's heart pounded in his chest, skipping beats, and he forgot to breathe. Everything was spinning again. His body would not obey, so he tried his mind instead. The same haze as before clouded his thoughts. In the corner where Selena was, chains rattled and fabric rustled, and then Morzan growled. Skin slapped skin, and Selena gasped.

"Do not worry," said Morzan. "I have a special kind of torture waiting for you." Then his heavy footsteps crossed the floor again, and he returned to Murtagh's narrow field of vision. His lip was bleeding, and he wiped the blood on the back of his hand and frowned at it.

"Leave him be," Selena snapped. Her gentle tone was gone and had been replaced by the voice of a woman cold and jaded. "What sort of man does this to his own son?"

Morzan glanced over his shoulder at her, and then he settled an affectionate gaze on Murtagh. He placed a hand on his chest again. "A grub is attached to your spine. One wrong move will cause irreparable harm." Then he patted Murtagh's face, one corner of his lip raised. "I want you to stay nice and still while I find ways to destroy everything you love."

With a laugh, Morzan went away, and the wood door slammed shut. Once again, something heavy moved across the door like some kind of lock being put into place. Footsteps thumped across the floor, growing quieter until at last they were gone. Selena exhaled. Murtagh struggled to breathe.

"Are you all right?" Selena asked. Chains rattled and clanked, and then leather pounded against stone. Groaning, she said, "I cannot use magic. He is blocking my words somehow."

Of course he had. Morzan was not a fool. He knew the dangers of magic and would subdue anyone with the ability to use it. Murtagh had wormed his way out of this situation once before and he would do it again. Yet as he reached out with his mind, he blacked out. Chains rattled and woke him. Another reach and he blacked out again. When he came around the next time, waning orange light filled the room.

"Hold on, Murtagh," said Selena, huffing for air. She chanted several words of magic, some great and some small. Nothing happened. Chains snapped against stone several times, and then she yelled, "Why does it not work?"

Murtagh had to save her, but the nasty little creature in his body and the sealing spells his father had surely placed on him made it near impossible. Nevertheless, he would find a way. Murtagh stabbed at the grub with his mind, caught hold of it for one second, and then passed out.

Darkness had swallowed the room by the time he woke again. Chain grated on stone in the corner. Selena was nothing if not determined.

Murtagh ran through an assortment of spells in his mind but to no effect. Morzan had failed to take away his ability to think, but perhaps that was the point. His father wanted him to be fully aware of how helpless he was. Before, he had attacked the Lethrblaka in a single jab and broke free in that manner, but a quick attack on the grub might kill him.

Then he felt a warm but powerful presence brush against his mind. Immediately he recoiled and guarded against it, and at least that he was capable of doing. Morzan could trap him in his mind but could not enter. The chains rattled on the other side of the room.

"Murtagh," Selena whispered, and then the consciousness brushed against him again—her mind.

Inwardly cursing, Murtagh let down his barriers just enough.

_I can still use my mind,_  she explained.  _If I can use magic without words, then I may be able to get us out of here. I have never done it before, but…_

Her mental voice trailed off, and through their connection, her fear hit him hard.

Murtagh internally shouted at her, though his words did not reach her. Morzan had not sealed her mind because it was too dangerous to use magic without words. It would kill her! Yet he could say nothing to her because of his contemptible father. Desperate to stop her, he rushed into her mind with a cry of dissent—and abruptly lost consciousness.

When he woke the next time, Murtagh was screaming. Every muscle in his body twisted and contorted against sharp flashes of pain. White blinded him. The restraints on his wrists and ankles went slack, and a hand pressed against the base of his skull and sent shivers down his spine. Dark colors swirled over his head and took shape.

Selena loomed over him, a halo around her from the golden rays of dawn creeping through the window. Her mouth moved without making sound.

Suddenly, the world snapped back into place. The roaring and ringing began to fade.

One of Selena's hands was on his neck and the other his arm. Her skin was like ice and her face pale as one long dead. Sweat trickled off her forehead. Her eyes were barely open.

"I did it," she said with a gasp, hardly making a sound. Her chest heaved as she struggled for air. The dark circles under her eyes were nearly black. "I moved the creature with my mind. Something helped me. A voice…" Every word came with an audible rasp. Pulling on his arm, she murmured, "We have to go."

Murtagh rolled and fell off the bed, but Selena caught some of his weight. His back was tight and burned with every movement. The whipping—he had forgotten about it. Pain was manageable, mind over matter. He had done it before, time and again, and now was no different. Snatching the side of the bed, he pushed himself back to his feet, and Selena held him at the waist. Together they staggered to the door.

It was locked from the outside. Shaking it, Murtagh muttered words of magic that failed. His mind remained useless. Selena frowned at the door, her bleary eyes focused on the wood. It cracked down the middle and then shattered, and splinters exploded into the air. Selena fell into Murtagh's arms and nearly took him to the ground. He kept her up, but she was shaking so severely that her feet would not stay planted on the floor.

Still, she exhaled a laugh. "How do you do this?" Tears rimmed her eyes. She was at her limit.

Murtagh  _had_  to do the rest. He was not going to allow her to die. Kicking the door out, he half led and half carried her down the hall. At least he knew where he was going, but unfortunately, the exit was a long ways from where they were.

Down several corridors they went, and the fog over Murtagh's mind began to lift. It was not nearly enough, though. As they entered another hall, clacking echoed from the stairs ahead of them. Murtagh turned for another staircase down a different hall, but the sound not only followed but surrounded them on all sides. A thump, a clack, and then something solid dragging across the floor.

Murtagh rounded a corner, and a dozen Ra'zac roared at him from the other side of the hall. He spun around, and more Ra'zac rushed behind them, their lanky, uncovered bodies tumbling over each other.

"Murtagh!" Selena yelped, and she yanked on his arm and turned him.

Standing behind them, as if having appeared out of thin air, was the Shade that had once been Tornac. Both Murtagh and Selena tumbled away from him and back towards the group of Ra'zac. Tornac—the Shade—stood still without expression, his gaze fast on Murtagh. Then he turned his head and raised a hand, pointing to a nearby door.

Murtagh choked on air. "Tornac…"

Before he could say or do anything else, Selena pulled him inside the room, slamming and locking the door behind them. It had once been a study, though now it was empty save a bookshelf tipped and shattered on the floor. On the far wall were two heavy doors and, beyond them, a balcony over the vast courtyard.

Stumbling and carrying each other's weight, Murtagh and Selena wrenched the doors open, and a gust of frozen wind and snow flurries enveloped them. Clouds devoured the sky, but the horizon shone blood red. Overhead, Lethrblaka swarmed, unleashing high-pitched screams into the waning night. It was a long way down to the snowy courtyard.

The door shattered behind them. Murtagh pushed Selena behind him and back towards the stone railing of the balcony.

Morzan strolled in with a smile on his face and Zar'roc in his hand. He flipped his black hair over his shoulder. "What a simple oversight nearly cost me," he muttered. "How in the world did either of you manage such a feat?" It was not praise. Annoyance and hostility dripped off his tongue. "I will not make the same mistake twice." Tipping his head back, he said, "There is nowhere for you to go. Return to me and submit."

"I will not," Murtagh replied.

"You test my patience, Murtagh." Morzan stepped closer, and Murtagh stepped back. "Come."

"I am not a child anymore."

"Yet you tremble as much today as the day I first struck you with this sword," Morzan said, and he laughed. Zar'roc's blade shone in the red light.

Murtagh curled his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. Pain, weakness, and cold made him shiver, but certainly not fear. Rage consumed him, and he allowed it to. "If you throw your sword at me now, I will throw it back."

Morzan's lip twitched down ever so slightly.

_Jump_ , said a voice, and Murtagh turned his face to the balcony.

"You do not have the strength to use magic now." Morzan warned him as if having heard the voice himself. "If you jump, you both die."

_Jump_ , urged the voice again, and it echoed in his head both in his language and the ancient language.

"Better to be dead," growled Murtagh, and he lifted Selena into his arms, "than here with you." Then, he flipped backwards over the railing, and Morzan screamed after them.


	31. Misery

"No!" Morzan screamed, and he reached for them.

Their descent was brief. Warm air folded around Murtagh and Selena and held them up like a gentle hand, and then a massive Lethrblaka with a scarred eye swept beneath them, carrying them on its unnaturally smooth back. It brought them to the ground and dumped them in the snow, sending them rolling, and then it whipped its tail through the air as a smaller, lesser Lethrblaka swooped down after it. The spirit-possessed Lethrblaka reared and belted out a roar, and then it took to the sky and engaged many other Lethrblaka in battle.

Selena dragged Murtagh to his feet as he choked and writhed in pain from the fall, and then they ran for the gate. An explosion behind them sent them flying, and fire poured off one side of the castle. Murtagh hit the ground hard, his ears ringing, and staggered trying to find Selena in the snow. He toppled against something soft, and warmth enveloped him. Blinding light disappeared and was replaced by darkness. A firm arm wrapped around his shoulders.

Another explosion followed, though it was far away. Metal clanked in the distance, the sound of armor and swords, and knights unleashed a great battle cry. Footsteps crunched through the snow around them.

"They belong to me!" yelled Morzan, puffing between words.

"Not anymore," said Brom, and his chest vibrated against Murtagh's cheek as he spoke.

Murtagh tipped his head, and part of a woolen cloak fell away from him and gave back his sight. Brom knelt in the snow and held him fast, his cloak folded securely around them both. Behind him, highlighted in gold as the clouds gave way to light, was Eragon holding Selena. All of their eyes were set straight ahead, towards the castle and towards Morzan. Shouting and grinding metal arose behind them.

"He is your enemy," snapped Morzan, his voice drawing closer. Murtagh shifted, and the cloak fell beneath his nose. His father stormed towards them with Zar'roc in hand, his eyes wild. "Give me my son."

"Take him from me," Brom challenged him, his eyes flashing in the growing light.

Embers flitted into the heavens. The castle was burning, and a ball of fire soared through the air and crashed into it. Many of the castle's walls tumbled down. Morzan waved his hand in the air, and dozens of Lethrblaka circled and came near.

"You cannot win," Morzan assured them. "Your tiny human army will perish here."

Yet as he spoke with confidence, brilliant lights like falling stars shot across the sky. All at once, the Lethrblaka, the humans, the entire world went quiet. Lights settled upon the Lethrblaka and disappeared, and their circling ceased. One after another, Lethrblaka spun and plummeted into the castle, blowing apart its walls and tearing it apart from the inside out. None rose again.

Morzan stepped back, mouth gaping. "Spirits," he snarled, and then his eyes hit Murtagh with enough hatred to take his breath away. "You…"

"Your arrogance will be your undoing," Selena said, stepping away from Eragon. Her body shook, but she stood on her own. "A monster like you may stand, but not for long."

"Monster? If I am a monster, what are you?" Morzan laughed, twirling Zar'roc and planting his feet wide. Eragon drew a sword in response. To Selena, Morzan bellowed, "You cannot even recognize your own son!"

Morzan lunged and Eragon moved to intercept. Murtagh shuddered in rage. With his mind, he snatched Zar'roc out of his father's hand, turned the blade, and hurled it upon Morzan. The sword ripped through Morzan's shoulder and planted in the ground, and his father stumbled back with wide and wild eyes.

The spirit-guided Lethrblaka with one eye dropped over Morzan's head and caught him in a claw. A second Lethrblaka rolled over them, and the two black creatures grappled at each other, snarling and biting at the other's neck. A burst of flames separated them, and the smaller Lethrblaka took to the sky carting Morzan with it.

Meanwhile, what remained of the Lethrblaka poured out of the heavens and destroyed themselves in the burning, crumbling castle. Only one remained, Murtagh's spirit-possessed mount, and it roared in triumph and stretched its wings high. Human voices carried from every direction.

"Are you all right?" Eragon asked, sheathing his sword. He knelt beside them as Brom unraveled his cloak and secured it around Murtagh. Eragon tugged at the edge of the cloak to see beneath. Black veins reached across Murtagh's skin in tight webs from his head to his feet, and Eragon released the fabric, his hand shaking. "What did he do to you?"

Brom helped Murtagh sit up on his own, though he kept a hand on his shoulder. When the initial dizziness passed, both Brom and Eragon helped him to stand. His bare feet burned in the snow.

"What did he mean?" Selena whispered, and she faced them slowly. Her gaze hung on Eragon. Every word after was breathless and shaky. "I cannot recognize my own son?" Approaching, she took his shoulders in her hands and shook him, and her volume increased. "What did he mean?"

Eragon stammered out a few incoherent words but could not say more. Murtagh tugged the cloak tight at his chest and turned away, staring at the snow. Guilt stabbed him in the chest, again and again, but this was for the best. He would apologize to Eragon later.

"Tell me!" Selena demanded, and she clasped Eragon's face. "I recognize you. I know who you are. What did he mean?"

Brom frowned at her and then at Eragon, and then his gaze crept to Murtagh. Their eyes met for only a second, and Murtagh's heart stopped. Brom's eyebrows went up, his eyes opened wide, and his jaw fell. Every muscle in Murtagh's body went rigid, and he shook his head so slight that only Brom would notice. Tremors shook him, and he squeezed the cloak to his chest.

Without a word, Murtagh turned and walked beyond the castle gate and into the shadows of the forest. His feet were numb and his legs wobbled, but he kept moving. Heavy footsteps followed him, and when he stopped, Brom came from behind and stood at a slight distance.

"You…" Brom breathed. Not a trace of shock had left his face. "You are—"

"Don't!" Murtagh said, turning on his heels. He built a shield around them to keep their voices from the rest of the world. A fierce heat burned behind his eyes. He was shaking so violently that his speech quivered. "Don't make her remember. Don't make her live in that life again." A tear slid down his face, a foolish thing, but he could not help it. "You are the one she loves—you and Eragon. Let it be."

Brom's eyes swept the ground, and he pressed a hand to his head. "I had also forgotten… how I met her." His brow furrowed and his beard sagged in a frown. "She was Morzan's wife, and you are the child she bore him. You are—"

"I am nothing!" he yelled. "Please!"

Brom took a single step back, and then he stood still. It took a while for him to speak again, and it was barely above a whisper. "Why? Why would you keep this a secret?"

Murtagh turned away from Brom and glared at the snow. "You know the man my father is. What he put her through and made her do…" Then he met and held his gaze despite his own pathetic tears and trembling. "She remembers nothing apart from meeting you. Leave it so."

"All this time, you knew and said nothing." Brom tipped his head. "Does Eragon…" Then his eyes bulged again, and he exhaled a heavy breath. "You are brothers. You…"

"Half brothers," Murtagh corrected him, and his eyes dropped again to the ground. It was hard to breathe. "He and I are nothing alike." Brom stiffened. "Please swear to me you will not tell her."

"As you made Eragon swear," Brom said, and he pulled back his shoulders and straightened his back. "Is that why you did it?"

Murtagh choked for air and clasped his throbbing head. Pathetic. He was so pathetic. Again he met eyes with Brom. "She is happy now. Please do not take that from her. I have so few memories of her, but I know she never smiled like she does now." Crushing pain gripped his chest. No, with him, his mother had never been happy. Another tear slipped down his face. Pathetic. "Please be happy together with her and Eragon. After everything that has been done, it is the right thing."

Brom crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw shifting back and forth. Then, he swore his oath in the ancient language to do exactly as Murtagh asked.

Murtagh blinked back tears. "Thank you."

"I will not tell her because she should not hear it from me," Brom explained, and his expression was hard and stern. "Nor should she hear it from  _that man._  It should come from you, and I expect you to be honest with her. It is not your right to keep her child from her."

"When people look at me, they see my father. She is no different," Murtagh said, and he shook his head. Heat crawled across his face. "Why do you think she left me? I will not add the burden of manipulation and torture to her shoulders. Even I am not so cruel."

Before Brom could answer him, Eragon tumbled out of the forest, panting. He scowled at Murtagh for only a second, and then he glanced between them. Whatever he was planning on saying died on his lips in the heavy atmosphere.

Brom's shoulders rose as he inhaled. "Brothers. That would explain a lot."

Murtagh tugged the cloak tight and frowned at his feet in the snow. Numbness had taken him, but it probably was not a good thing. The black veins were accented by bright red skin.

Armor clattered around them, and then a group of knights in silver armor and crimson tunics surrounded them from out of the shadows of the forest. Many were shouting, but Murtagh ignored them. Most ran past and moved on towards the castle, and only a small group lingered. A few men stopped to speak with Brom, and several eyed Murtagh. He was still a prisoner, after all.

"Are you all right?" Eragon whispered to Murtagh, standing shoulder to shoulder with him.

Murtagh did not answer. Anything he wanted to say would have been a lie.

Selena saved him from having to come up with a proper response. She shuffled through the snow with a bundle of clothes and a pair of boots in her hands, and after exchanging a few words with one of the nearest knights, she brought them to Murtagh. "Put these on." Her gaze drifted to his feet in the snow, her eyebrows squeezing together. "You must already be freezing."

Muttering to herself, she cast a spell over him that warmed him from head to toe, and then she tottered forward. Murtagh dropped the garments she brought for him, catching her instead, and Eragon held her from behind. Brom turned his full attention to them.

"I am alright," she mumbled, rubbing her head. Leaning into Eragon's hold and clasping one of Murtagh's arms for support, she stood, and her eyes traced Murtagh's arm and then his face, his jaw, and his neck, following the webs that had been drilled under his skin. "How could he do this to you?" Then she leaned further into Eragon's hands.

"Can the Lethrblaka help us return to Ilirea?" Eragon asked while supporting their mother's weight.

Murtagh nodded and extended his mind to the creature. Dizziness crashed over him like a wave, but at least he did not black out. The spirit answered with a wordless, affirmative hum, and then the Lethrblaka began its descent and scattered the knights. In the meantime, Murtagh took his borrowed garments and went to dress in the shadows of the trees.

\-----

It was an uneventful trip back to Ilirea.

Thorn was waiting at the castle, and an enormous weight lifted off Murtagh's chest at seeing him unharmed. Murtagh was examined and healed by several of Nasuada's court magicians, but only the wounds inflicted by Morzan and nothing on his back. Being abducted and tortured did not release one from a prior sentence. He was too tired to care, and as soon as they released him, he was sent away to sleep. Brom and two knights went with him, and Thorn clung to his hand.

Murtagh flopped into a giant bed and fell asleep in a matter of seconds.

Nightmares came and went as they often did. In his dreams, he killed many and ruined countless lives. Then the spirit's memories mingled with his, and he was Galbatorix, slaughtering dragons and killing old friends. They were not so different, he and the spirit. Murtagh was not so different from Morzan or Galbatorix, either. All he knew was how to kill and maim.

Incessant puffing roused Murtagh from his haunted slumber. A haze clouded his vision and mind that would not go away, perhaps from fever, loss of blood, or any number of things. Really, he had stopped trying to keep track. A thick blanket covered him, and a warm and moving lump was sprawled over his feet—Thorn.

Brom sat against the headboard on the other side of the bed, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, and he smoked his pipe and stared straight ahead. His eyes were in a faraway place. Murtagh intended to go back to sleep until Brom sighed long and deep.

"Most exciting seven days of your life," Murtagh murmured, barely producing any sound at all, and his throat burned. "You're welcome."

Brom blinked at him and unleashed a withheld puff of smoke. It took the shape of a ring before falling apart. His face was passive as he pressed back against the headboard, and then he smiled. It was slight. "You certainly are a nuisance."

Murtagh's lip twitched but could not quite make it into a smile. Brom slipped his legs off the bed and went to the table on the other side of the room. Setting his pipe down, he moved out of Murtagh's range of sight. Metal scraped across stone for only a second.

"How are you feeling?" Brom asked from behind him.

Everything was spinning, and Murtagh had been in a constant state of almost throwing up for a lot longer than he wanted to admit. His back itched as though crawling with hundreds of those little grubby worms, his body ached, and chills shook him. It was becoming harder and harder to say that he was fine, and so he remained silent and stared at the door.

When Brom returned to the side of the bed, he held the blood-red sword Zar'roc in his hands. He twisted it in the dim lamplight, casting scarlet streaks across the ceiling and walls. Murtagh exhaled a long breath.

"One of the knights found it in the snow," Brom explained. "Eragon asked me to give it to you." Then he sat on the edge of the bed with his back to Murtagh, and his shoulders sank. Running his thumb across the blade's smooth surface, he turned it several times in his hands. His voice lowered. "This sword has caused a great deal of misery for many people."

Truer words had not been said, but for Brom it was far more personal. Zar'roc was a symbol of heartache for Brom who had been betrayed by Morzan, who had lost his dragon because of Morzan. It was a sword that ruined lives and rightly bore its name. And Murtagh carried on its legacy with a stinging betrayal against Eragon and the Varden, with the death of Oromis and Glaedr, and with the harm he had caused so many others. When Murtagh took the sword as his inheritance, Eragon declared that he had become his father. It was a statement of fact, and Murtagh could not deny it now even if he tried.

Murtagh did not want to be his father, and the fact that he could not escape it—the fact that he  _was—_ killed him inside.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to Brom even though it would change nothing. They were worthless and pathetic words. They would not bring back the dead or erase the scars over Brom's heart. If time had taught Murtagh anything, it was that some wounds were too deep, some betrayals too cruel, that the harm could never be undone.

His words had no effect. Brom simply ran his thumb across the blade, quiet.

"I won't stop you," Murtagh murmured, and he squeezed a handful of blanket in his hand. His vision blurred as he stared across the room. "You have a right to know. To have peace. Read my memories." And then he allowed his mental barriers to tumble so that only one thing remained tucked away, one secret that no one should know—that he was going to be erased from existence. It was a secret that would bother no one, but he shielded it just the same. "Take what you need from me."

Brom shifted. He turned the sword over, red glinting off the ceiling, and then he rose. Pressing the tip of Zar'roc to the ground, he leaned on it with both hands on the ruby pommel, his eyes landing on Murtagh. Murtagh could not meet his gaze. Finally the old Rider disappeared from sight. When he came back around, his hands were empty. He settled on the side of the bed, his face drawn and taut. Then at last he stretched out his arm, placing his palm upon Murtagh's temple, creating a warm, steady, physical link between them. His eyes were sharp, focused.

His words came softly, just above a whisper, "Sleep," and Brom slid his hand over Murtagh's eyes. "And when you wake, you will have another dose of medicine and a hearty meal." Brom took his hand away and rose, and he left the room without another word, without looking back.

Murtagh blinked at the door as it closed, and his brow furrowed. Piece by piece, he put his mental barriers back into place while trying to understand why his mind had not been invaded. Likely it had no value now—Brom had already made up his mind about him and needed no other convincing. There was nothing Murtagh could do to alleviate the burden.

His eyelids hung heavy, and darkness tugged at him until he surrendered and fell into a dreamless slumber.


	32. Interlude

Murtagh awoke to constant tapping and clinking glass. He blinked and stared at a blur of bright colors until his vision shifted into place. It took a while. Brilliant light shone through the window and flooded the room with a warm glow. On the far side of the room with her back to him was a woman, her curly brown hair bobbing as she swayed back and forth in front of a small table. A child stood beside her with a tattered hood and cloak concealing their features.

On the other side of the room, metal scraped on wood.

Murtagh turned without pain. The chain on his neck was gone, and his back was fully healed. Seven days had finally passed. Nevertheless, his muscles were stiff, and he groaned.

Thorn sat at another table on the other side of the room with a spoon in his mouth and cheeks stuffed full, and he froze with eyes bulging when he saw Murtagh. Sputtering, he said, "Murtagh!" Then he tossed the spoon, which bounced off the table and clattered to the floor, and then dove for the bed and crawled beside him, patting him all over. "Are you all right? Was everything healed?" A bit of creamy porridge dribbled down his chin, and he licked at it with a too-short tongue.

"I think so," Murtagh answered, and he set his hand on Thorn's head, ruffling his wild hair. "Sorry to worry you."

Thorn gave a slight nod, leaning into his hand, and then he settled his head on Murtagh's chest. The warmth was not undesirable, and Murtagh smoothed his bright red hair.

"Ahem." The woman from Lithgow approached—Angela—and she had in her hand a tiny saucer filled with dark green sludge that she offered to him. "Medicine for your fever."

Murtagh hesitated, and then he pressed his elbows into the mattress to try to prop himself up. His entire body shook. Thorn wedged between him and the bed to hold him up. Murtagh accepted the thick medicine, spun it once in the saucer, and then downed it. It was sweet like sugar and soothed his sore throat. Among medicines, it was probably the best tasting.

Angela took the empty saucer from him with a smile, her eyes gleaming, and then she went back to the table and patted a small parcel on it. "There is enough medicine here to last a while, but you should use it sparingly. I can't follow you everywhere to replenish your supply." Then she sat in a chair across the room, crossing one leg over the other. Her head tipped as she eyed him, but her expression softened considerably. "You would do well to look after yourself better. That fever is not going away, you know."

"I know," Murtagh answered. He tugged at the strings of the baggy linen nightshirt he had been dressed in. His muscles cramped throughout his body, but his head was finally clear for the first time in a good long while. Whatever medicine she gave, it was effective. "Your name is Angela?"

"Miserable thing you are, you did read my message," she grumbled, her face twisting and wrinkling, and then she leaned forward and propped her head in her upturned palm. "Shame on you."

"You know something about what's going on." Murtagh shuddered and pulled the blanket around him more securely. Bumps spread across his skin as chills shuddered through his limbs. Thorn scooted closer to him. "Is that why you found me?" Angela stared at him and tapped a finger to her cheek. He added, "What do you know?"

"I know that a very powerful spirit resides in you, one that few of us could ever hope to contain," she said. Crossing her arms, she leaned back in the chair. "And I know that you made an agreement with it, and by your agreement you will save us all."

Something in her eyes suggested she could see straight into the depths of his mind. She smiled but only after several attempts to do so. And Murtagh had no doubt that, somehow, she knew. She knew that he had agreed to erase himself from existence. Not even Thorn knew, and the child tipped his head, his face scrunched.

Murtagh's gaze darted from Thorn to her, and he swallowed hard. "And how do you know that?"

"Let's just say I have a bit of history with the spirits," she said, and her smile spread across her face, as real as could be. "It's a shame Eragon does not remember what you did for him that day. I think it would even make him cry."

"Mind your business," he grumbled, his eyebrow twitching.

Angela laughed and patted her knees, and then she rose. Slipping a cloak off the back of the chair, she twirled it around her shoulders and pulled up her hood.

"What is she talking about?" Thorn asked.

Murtagh scratched the back of his head, and then he forced a smile. It was lopsided and pathetic, but he tried. "I wish I could say I agreed to help the spirit to save Alagaësia, but the truth is that I was really just worried about you and Eragon."

It was not the whole truth, rather only a fragment of the truth, but Murtagh could not tell him, not yet. Angela absolutely knew, though, and her face softened again.

Thorn scrunched his lips from one side to the other, wiggling his nose in the process, and then he crossed his legs in front of him, holding his ankles. "But you help everyone now because you are kind."

Murtagh's face burned, and he rubbed the back of his neck. The child lurking near the door came forward then, and she pulled down her hood to reveal smooth raven hair. A mark shone upon her brow like a star. Her unnatural violet eyes, deep and knowing, settled on him.

"Why is that?" she asked in an adult's voice. Another chill not caused by fever or cold slithered up Murtagh's spine. "Why do you protect people who hate you? Why sacrifice for people who wish you did not exist?" Her eyes searched him, saw through him, and yet were filled with confusion. Her lips parted and her eyebrows arched. Something was lost and broken in her, too.

"Are you asking for me," Murtagh wondered, "or for yourself?"

The girl took a step back, and her eyes went wide. Immediately she collected herself, and her face pressed into a frown. "No one cares for you, and everyone seeks only to hurt you. Why do you fight this fight? Why not rather run away?"

Murtagh sat back, resting his hands over the blanket in his lap. His palm shone with a mark nearly identical to hers. Thorn leaned closer, and Murtagh wrapped his fingers over his gedwëy ignasia. Finally, he met her gaze and did not look away. "I have many things that I want to protect. I cannot run away."

"That is foolishness," she said, pushing her shoulders back.

"Perhaps." Murtagh's lips tugged into a smile. "But it is right."

The child's forehead wrinkled until the shining mark was no longer recognizable.

Angela hummed behind her and turned for the door. "Elva, let's go."

The child called Elva stared hard at Murtagh—stared  _through_  him—and then spun on her heels and went straight out the door. Angela paused in the open doorway before slipping out, closing it with a quiet click.

Murtagh ran his fingers through his hair and leaned back against the headboard. Exhaustion came over him again like the slow fall of night. Angela was right. His fever was not going away, and his health was not going to return to him. By his agreement with the spirit, his body would fail, and it seemed sooner rather than later.

With a quiet hum, Thorn crawled into Murtagh's lap and sat without hesitation, taking hold of Murtagh's face with both hands and touching their foreheads together. Then he snorted into his hair.

"It's weird, Thorn," Murtagh laughed, and a dull ache seized his lungs.

Thorn snorted again, nuzzling Murtagh's face and neck, and then he folded both arms around his head and held him tight. Murtagh smiled and returned the embrace. Warmth poured through him from the contact, easing his aches and sorrow.

"I'm sorry, Thorn," he whispered. For everything. He could not say more, for his list of transgressions was too long. Thorn deserved far better than him.

Thorn simply squeezed him in his arms, and after a long moment passed, he murmured, "It is rather pleasant, human nestling."

Murtagh broke out laughing, and the dull ache in his chest turned to sharp stabs. "You are so weird." Even then, he could not bring himself to let go until a knock on the door drew them apart.

Eragon poked his head inside, and his eyes went wide when they landed on Murtagh. He slipped in, and Brom was right behind him. Eragon wrung his hands and asked, "How are you feeling?"

"Better," Murtagh said. "How is Selena?"

"Mother is fine." Eragon stopped near the bed, and his forehead wrinkled in a frown. "She said he didn't do anything to her because you protected her."

Murtagh shrugged and leaned against the headboard, and Eragon scrutinized him without saying another word.

Brom then spoke in a casual tone, "A bath was drawn for you. Afterwards, you will have a meal." He crossed his arms and straightened his back, and he left no room for negotiation. "Have you had medicine?"

Murtagh only gave a slight nod, and then he peeled back the blanket and slid out of bed. His knees creaked and his body ached, but he managed. Nevertheless, Eragon kept beside him with a hand partially extended to aid him if he needed it.

"I'm all right," Murtagh told him. It was not unwelcome, the supportive gestures, but he did not need them.

Eragon retracted his hand, and his face fell along with it.

Another twinge of pain stabbed Murtagh's chest, though it was not from illness. While rather quite the failure at most things he put his hand to, he was adept at making others miserable. Dropping his head, he traced with his eyes the golden thread along the crimson rug. He should apologize later.

"Come," Brom said, and he tipped his head to the door.

Murtagh limped, for his muscles and joints responded to the activity with flashes of searing pain. After seven days of minimal motion, it would take a while to move again. Thorn scurried off the bed and followed in his shadow, always close. Eragon followed at a slight but noticeable distance, his hands curled into fists and his eyes on the floor.

Thus they left the room together without speaking again.

\-----

From rags to riches in under a day. When Murtagh tugged on his new crimson tunic, silver thread glittered along the edges. It was a thick material, warm, but it would offer little defense in a fight. Before leaving, he would have to acquire more practical clothing. Not that he disliked dressing for comfort, but it made little sense in the present circumstances.

No longer sentenced to prison or to remain under guard, he had been provided his own extravagant room that he shared only with Thorn. His partner had long since gone to sleep, but Murtagh could not stop his mind from racing, and so he paced the halls of the castle where he had grown up—and been imprisoned in twice, once by Galbatorix and again by Nasuada.

Yet he did not hate it, for he had many memories he cherished within the castle's walls. It was in this castle where he met Tornac, the man who mentored him and cared for him as he grew up, the man who taught him right from wrong and who gave his life to shield Murtagh's escape from Galbatorix. It ate at Murtagh that Tornac had died for nothing. Murtagh wound up right back where he started, under Galbatorix's thumb.

Now Tornac was enslaved by Morzan and the spirits, a puppet to be used against Murtagh. Tornac's entire existence, in life and in death, had been ruined by Murtagh.

Quiet footsteps and rattling armor drew his eyes off the floor. It was the first time he had seen her since his sentencing, and his breath caught in his throat. She had that effect on him.

Nasuada paused at a distance, her eyes wide, and then she waved away the knight accompanying her. The old knight scowled at Murtagh before obeying her command, and he stood at the end of the hall with one hand on his sword. Murtagh did not approach her, for he did not have the right to do so, and she came to him instead, her pale violet gown shimmering in the dim lamplight. Crystals shone in her braided hair like stars in the sky. She did not meet his gaze.

"Are you well?" she asked, her shoulders pulled back and her chin lifted high, though it was forced, and her eyes looked beyond him.

"I am."

Nasuada's attention moved to the wall. At the very least, she never looked down. With forced strength, she said, "I did what I had to do to free you. It was—"

"It was the only way," Murtagh said, and finally she blinked at him. Her eyes were deep as the darkest night and equally as mesmerizing. "And I would accept it from your hand a hundred times more if necessary." His tone softened. "I will do what I can to see you succeed, Nasuada. I will not cause you further harm."

Her lips parted and closed again, and she searched his eyes without blinking. "It was not you who harmed me. They may have been your hands, but it was not your will. I will not forget that, and you should not, either."

Murtagh shifted, leaning his weight away from her. He could not respond.

"Yet not everyone is able to understand," she said, her brow furrowed.

"The Varden views me as an enemy, and the Empire views me as the man who lost." Murtagh exhaled, his lips turning into a sad smile. "To both I am a failure."

"Then they are wrong." Nasuada spoke with certainty, never wavering. "You made it possible for Eragon to defeat Galbatorix, and now you fight on behalf of us all." With a gentle voice and eyes shining, she said, "Thank you."

Murtagh shifted his weight again. Gratitude was not necessary, but it lifted his shoulders nonetheless. Warmth stirred deep in his chest and brought a smile to his lips. "Continue to grow ever wiser, Nasuada." His words were quiet, but they were heard. Nasuada's eyes widened. "Stand strong in the face of your enemies, and never surrender to fear or intimidation. Always be fair and just in your dealings, and soon the entire Empire will see that you are what it always needed." He raised his hand to touch her arm but dropped it. "And remember that you are not alone. People like Eragon—lean into them when you need to and understand that it is strength and not weakness. Surround yourself with those people, and by their hands you will never fall."

Her voice cracked, and her eyes shone. "Remember that for yourself." Then she placed her slender hand upon his arm. His skin tingled from the warmth. "I believe there is still hope for you, Murtagh… and a place for you."

Murtagh tried not to let his smile falter, but it did. He pulled away from her, and her hand fell to her side. "Succeed, Nasuada," he told her, and he bowed at the waist. "And I will do whatever I can, for as long as I can, to support you." Then he straightened and turned away.

"Murtagh!" she called out, and he stopped at her urgent tone. Then she spoke in a whisper, nothing more than a breath. It was something like a plea. "Prove them wrong."

Without reply, Murtagh continued down the hall.


	33. Return to the Start

Night gave way to dawn, and Murtagh sat in a chair by the window in his room and watched the sun rise. It was bright, and the light warmed his face, but a heavy cloud refused to lift from his mind. Enough time had passed resting a body that was not going to heal. Rising, he checked the supplies he had gathered in the night. Everything was in order.

In the large bed, Thorn tossed and turned, snoring like a dragon. A puddle formed on the pillow under his gaping mouth, and one of his arms hung over the side of the bed. His hand twitched. He was in a deep and restful sleep, without a care in the world.

As it should be. Thorn deserved much better than the sorry lot in life Murtagh had provided for him. He deserved the same honor and respect afforded to Saphira, Fírnen, and Glaedr. He deserved a place to rest and a nest to make his own. After everything he went through, Thorn deserved to be happy. But happiness was something Murtagh would never be able to give him.

Murtagh knelt at the side of the bed. He took Thorn's hand in his own. It was not the same connection they used to share in mind, but it was a connection nonetheless. Warmth spread into his fingertips. Then he shifted Thorn's arm onto the bed and pulled the blanket around him, covering him. Gently he placed his hand on Thorn's head and smoothed his wild hair until all of the strands stuck up in defiance. A smile tugged on Murtagh's lips.

Gurgling, Thorn closed his mouth. He blinked his eyes open halfway, and when he saw Murtagh, he grinned from ear to ear.

"It's early," Murtagh whispered, and he continued petting Thorn's head. "Go back to sleep."

"You should rest, too," mumbled Thorn. His eyelids fluttered as Murtagh touched his head, and he drifted back to sleep.

Like a child. Like a small, helpless child. Thorn needed to be safe. He needed to live long enough to forget Murtagh and move on with his life. In Ilirea he would be protected by an army and Nasuada's court magicians. If breaking the spell returned him to his true form, all the better. But Thorn needed to  _live._

And so Murtagh rose, placed a kiss upon Thorn's brow, and then gathered his supplies and left without a word.

Dulling Zar'roc with magic, he tied it naked to his belt. The scabbard had been lost with Sandstorm and was likely never to be seen again. As long as he could carry it with magic, it was well enough.

The castle was quiet save a few servants scampering here and there and the usual guard. A few knights shot him poisonous looks, but several others tipped their heads at him. Possibly they had been enslaved by Galbatorix and understood him or perhaps they appreciated his help ridding Ilirea of the Ra'zac. Rather than dwell on it, he kept on his way.

He left the castle through a lesser exit, making his way around to the main gate. Snow had fallen in the night and covered the stone walkways in white powder that sparkled in the cool rays of dawn. A cold slap of wind took the air out of Murtagh's lungs.

_Can you hear me?_  Murtagh called to the spirit within the Lethrblaka. He searched the sky for it with his mind and then with his eyes.

Sure enough, it circled high above, watching and waiting, but it did not respond to him.

As the sun crept over the horizon, it cast a pale gray glow upon the highest towers of the castle while the rest remained encased in shadows. Murtagh closed his eyes and uttered words of magic under his breath. Powerful barriers spread out from him and engulfed not only the castle but all of Ilirea. It was the same magic by which he had ejected Morzan and the Lethrblaka from Du Weldenvarden. They would not reach the city or its inhabitants without a fight, and Murtagh would be fully aware of it if they tried.

What little strength he had managed to recover drained out of him quickly. He had packed all of the medicine left behind by Angela, and likely he would need another dose soon.

_Please answer me,_  he said to the spirit in the Lethrblaka.  _I am leaving the city. Please meet me outside._

He only made it to the main gate of the castle before a bell rang in warning and then ceased just as quickly. The thumping of leathery wings suggested the approach of a Lethrblaka, but his spirit-controlled mount was still circling high above. Murtagh spun towards the gate and caught a flash of green in the increasing light as Fírnen flew by. The dragon shot through the air and then crashed into a vast courtyard within the castle's walls.

Knights shouted and scrambled in every direction.

One part of Murtagh told him to run, that if he did not flee now, he would lose his chance. But his father's cruel treatment of the dragon on the plains beyond Du Weldenvarden lingered in Murtagh's mind. Fírnen had been severely weakened and injured, and Morzan was to blame. Murtagh was responsible for it, and so he went back against his better judgment.

Finding his way to the courtyard was easy enough, for he knew the castle like the back of his hand. A few knights had gathered around and many more came out of the castle to greet them.

It was the first time Murtagh had really seen Fírnen up close. He was smaller, sleeker than Thorn and his golden eyes less wild. Like any dragon, he should have been majestic and beautiful, but most of Fírnen's scales were a dull and lackluster green, and his tail was completely white. Patches of his scales were gone, revealing raw skin beneath. His head rested on the ground and he lowered his wings.

"Are you all right?" Murtagh ran ahead. He was a second from using magic to heal him when Arya landed between them, stopping him in his tracks. "What happened to him?"

Arya regarded him for only a moment and then approached Fírnen, touching the dragon's jaw. "Beings of magic cannot exist in a world where magic is fading."

"I can try to heal him." Murtagh scanned the dragon one last time, wincing at the gaping holes and colorless scales.

"If you continue to push yourself, you will be in the same condition as the rest of us," said Arya. Briefly her piercing eyes flicked to the heavens before locking on him again. "The barriers around Ilirea and Du Weldenvarden—did you create them?"

"Yes." Murtagh frowned at the question, and then a sinking feeling settled in his gut. "Is something wrong with it?"

"No," she said, but her voice dragged as she did. "It is powerful magic." When Murtagh only cocked his head in response, she looked away from him and stared at the castle's eastern wall. "Have you felt it? Magic has surged in the east."

Murtagh shuddered. No, he had never felt it—Thorn had, and now the dragon was human, sealed and without any magical aptitude, and could feel none of it. If the pull of magic was targeted in that direction, then the spirits were at it again, after the greatest source of power they could possibly obtain. And if not the spirits themselves, then Morzan. His shoulders fell.

"I worry for the dragons," Arya said, and her brow furrowed deeply. "Will you go and attempt to remove the barrier around them? Given the circumstances, I believe you are the only one left who is able."

"The elves are fading." Murtagh rested his hand over Zar'roc's ruby pommel.

Arya's eyes flashed not in anger but hurt, and her lips pressed thin. She held his gaze as she answered, "Fading or already perished."

Murtagh ached for her. Most of the elves had been in poor shape when he left Du Weldenvarden. If this was the effect the spirits continued to have, then the entirety of Alagaësia was running out of time.

"Let's go," he said to her, and then he tipped his head. To the spirit in the sky that looked like nothing more than a little bird, he called out,  _Please come. We are heading east._

At long last, the Lethrblaka circling high over their heads began its descent into the courtyard. Knights scattered in every direction. They were not afraid of Fírnen, but they were certainly afraid of the Lethrblaka.

No matter how friendly it was, a monster would always be a monster.

When the Lethrblaka landed, Murtagh went and hoisted his packs over its back and bound them in place with ropes. A saddle would have been ideal, but time was against them.

Arya stared at him as if expecting something from him, and when Murtagh paused and met her gaze, she asked, "What of Eragon?"

Murtagh went back to work fastening knots to hold his packs in place. His fingers were trembling, so it was a bit more difficult than he liked. "What of him?"

"Saphira will be waiting for him." Arya crossed her arms and leaned her weight to one leg, and her brow knitted together in a frown. "He should go with us."

"Eragon is human," Murtagh said. He bit back a curse when his hands refused to secure a knot, his fingers shaking and his muscles losing strength. He probably needed medicine now. "If something went wrong, he would be in grave danger."

"He is not a child in need of coddling."

Perhaps not, but Murtagh wanted to protect him just the same. Against the spirits and against Morzan,  _no one_  truly stood a chance—only Murtagh. Anyone else, even Arya and Fírnen, would be at risk. It would be selfish to ask them to stay but foolish to let them join, and both options had negative consequences. Eragon would be angry to be left behind, but at least he would be alive.

Despite his weakness, Murtagh yanked both ends of the rope and tightened the knot. His joints burned. "Saphira can return to him here. He doesn't need to come."

"It is his home," said Arya, and her tone dipped low. "If he regains his powers, he will be able to assist." Then her head tipped and her hands settled on her hips. "Besides, if you leave, he will pursue you. He is safer  _with_  you than apart from you, is he not?"

A light danced behind her eyes. So she was using his fears against him. Murtagh glared at her, but she spoke truth. Most anyone else would stay given the present circumstances, but not Eragon. No, if he had any notion of what was going on, he would set off on his own by any means necessary and get himself into all sorts of trouble in the process. Especially if he knew Saphira was involved.

Murtagh would do the same thing for Thorn.

Sighing and glaring at the weathered skin of the Lethrblaka, Murtagh grumbled, "Fine. Bring him." Then he hoisted himself onto the creature's back.

Arya nodded and turned as if to leave, but then she paused. Glancing over her shoulder at him, her eyes softened as she said, "Your actions in Ellesméra will not be forgotten."

Yes, they would be. It came as a strange revelation, and Murtagh stared at her. Nothing he did mattered. He would leave no legacy behind, no one would remember him, good or bad, not his dragon, not his brother… not the people who hated him. At least the damage he had caused would be redeemed simply by being forgotten.

Murtagh only tipped his head at her, and then Arya sprinted to the castle to collect Eragon. Knights surrounded them now but did not approach, and they did nothing to interrupt their exchange. Fírnen kept his head down under the heavy weight of exhaustion, but one of his golden eyes was locked on Murtagh as if he was an oddity. Compared to the benevolent creatures Fírnen was accustomed to associating with, he probably was.

Whispering under his breath, Murtagh healed Fírnen as best he could without giving up too much of his strength. His energy drained quicker than he liked until he curled over himself and leaned forward in his seat. Familiar waves of nausea and dizziness overwhelmed him, and closing his eyes did nothing to help. When at last his sight cleared, he dug in one of his packs and took a vial of Angela's medicine and drank.

Fírnen lifted his head, blinking a single golden eye at Murtagh. He hummed, his entire body quivering, and then he rested again.

At last Arya appeared with Eragon from out of the castle. Thankfully, they were alone. If Eragon had any say in the matter, though, he would likely insist on taking Thorn and possibly Selena and Brom as well.

Murtagh did not want to give him the opportunity to argue, so he patted the Lethrblaka's neck and said, "Let's go."

In response, the Lethrblaka burst off the ground with powerful legs and enormous wings, and snow swirled over the courtyard. Then they spiraled upwards into crystal clear skies before shooting east. It took a while, but Fírnen eventually followed with only Arya and Eragon in the two-person saddle on his back.

Together they shot over Ilirea and beyond the shining barrier that protected it. Whenever possible, Murtagh kept his distance, and in doing so he evaded any questions Eragon might ask. Arya and Fírnen had nothing to say to him, so for the most part, it was a quiet journey. It was well enough, but it gave Murtagh ample time to succumb to his thoughts, including violent memories of Galbatorix and his cruel reign of one hundred years. Silence shielded him from facing one problem but simply opened the door for others. Murtagh accepted it.

It was a long flight to Mount Arngor, the mountain on which Eragon and the others had settled.

Along the way, the sky over the Hadarac Desert was indefinitely swallowed by clouds, and snow blanketed the sand both night and day. Yet as they reached the far eastern plains, following the Edda River along its winding course, the grass melted along with the snow until only pale and cracked soil remained. The sun's blazing light ate away the clouds, scorching the ground and everything on it with its oppressive heat. Only a trickle remained of the once wide and powerful river. Anything once alive in the water was no longer.

"There," Eragon called out, and he pointed into the distance.

Dust swirled on stale wind and blurred the horizon, but the faint outline of a mountain stood against the dirty blue sky. Beneath them on the dead ground, barely noticeable under their shadows, a black mist curled into the air. It was faint. Yet the larger the mountain grew, the higher the fog leapt off the ground, churning like wild ocean waves.

Gaps in the earth filled with boiling darkness peeked out from beneath the mist, and as the distance to the mountain lessened, the rips in the ground grew in size and number until they spread across the whole of the land. Shifting, muddy darkness reached out of the ground before popping in the air and evaporating. From base to peak, the mountain was made of the same shifting black energy.

"How did this…" Murtagh leaned forward on the Lethrblaka, taking in the full view. Not a trace remained of the mountain beneath, only a swirling black void. To the spirit, he said,  _These are the same rifts you spirits created when I was here the last time. The ones that we fell through that took use elsewhere._

Sifting through the darkness and focusing his concentration, he found threads of pulsing energy that weaved through the darkness, rippling various colors along their surfaces. The strings reached from one end of the world to the next.

_They connect all over Alagaësia,_  Murtagh said to the spirit, and even his mental voice quivered.  _How can I see this?_

_Because you have become one of us,_  replied the spirit without hesitation.  _You will see this world as we see it._ It touched Murtagh's mind, lingering on his confusion, and continued,  _My kind does not exist in the physical world as yours does. We bend your world to suit our needs. Traveling from one end of the land to the next is but a slight thing for us._

_Murtagh,_  Arya said over the spirit, and Murtagh broke his connection with it.  _Are you able to remove it?_

_Give me a moment._

Murtagh mentally poked through the threads within the dark energy in an effort to find what held them together. The pulsing energy led to no singular point and instead spread across the entirety of Alagaësia through the gaping holes. Along the outer edge of the rifts were traces of his sealing spell, and his magic severed many of the threads and cut off the pulsing energy so that some of the strings fluttered away in the air and dissolved at the ends.

He prodded the spirit again in private.  _My spells stopped it._

_They did, but now they fail as your constitution weakens._  The spirit turned the Lethrblaka along the side of the mountain, avoiding the outer edge of the splashing wall of dark matter.  _It will not hold any longer._

_How do I safely remove it?_  he asked.

_You know._

Murtagh muttered under his breath. Spirits were dodgy and annoying. For wanting to help him help them, they certainly were terrible at being useful. But perhaps he did already know, for he had been doing it all along. Digging through the threads, he found those that were thicker and stronger, unraveling them. He hit his own magic wall and spoke only a word,  _the_  Word. His spells of sealing and protection shuddered along with the darkness but did not disappear.

_Why isn't it working?_

_Your spells have mixed with our powers. You must cut them._  The Lethrblaka dipped low and then arced backwards as a part of the black mountain reached for them with a churning hand.

_Cut them?_  Murtagh rubbed his aching head.

"Murtagh!" Eragon shouted from Fírnen above them, and he followed with his eyes his sibling's finger to the peak of the mountain high above them.

Lethrblaka by the dozens dripped out of the rifts, plummeting towards the ground before unfurling their wings and shooting into the sky. One of them let out a reverberating shriek that stirred the darkness and sent black tendrils leaping into the air out of the rifts. Fírnen huffed and then dipped beneath Murtagh's mount.

_Please hurry,_  Arya said, and her voice wavered ever so slightly.  _We no longer have the strength to fight them._

At least fifty Lethrblaka circled over their heads and more continued to drop out of the rifts. Then another of the black creatures tore out of the darkness beneath them, snapping Fírnen's tail in its maw. The dragon roared and spun his entire body, landing on the Lethrblaka's back with claws extended, and he broke the creature's neck in one bite. Several more Lethrblaka fell out of the sky, talons reaching and beaks clicking.

Murtagh stuck up his hand, rearranged the threads throughout the sky, and created cracks of his own in the air. The Lethrblaka fell into the holes and disappeared, only to reappear through another fissure moments later. It was a temporary fix, and each time he ripped open a hole, a wave of pain crashed over him. His mind raced through the threads that held the magic together.

_What am I missing?_  Murtagh growled. The usual signs of physical distress assaulted him, from the layer of sweat on his skin to the twisting, churning of his stomach. Nevertheless, he ripped apart the sky and threw screeching Lethrblaka left and right, closing the holes over them.

_Your kind is flawed,_  said the spirit, not with animosity but simply as a statement of fact. It slipped into Murtagh's head with nary a struggle and pressed through his thoughts and memories until a single one stuck at the forefront of his mind.

"Cut them," he breathed. It was a familiar command, one he had received in the dragon's keep weeks earlier.

Unwinding Zar'roc from his belt, he extended the crimson blade towards the darkness. Heat rippled off the blade in a matter of seconds, creating a billowing sheath of air around it. Pressing two fingers against Zar'roc, he channeled all of his strength—and also the strength of the spirit sleeping in his mind—and pressed it onto his sword. It was something more than mere magical energy. It was not created by any sort of word or spell. It was not a true name or even the Name of Names. It was simply the undoing of all things.

Brilliant light flowed around Zar'roc's blade until it stretched out like an enormous, shining wing. Lights flickered around Murtagh and his Lethrblaka mount, wrapping them in a gleaming cocoon. His Lethrblaka shot upwards into a swarm of the terrorizing black creatures above, and Murtagh swung Zar'roc. Even from a distance, he cleaved them clean in two, and they shattered to black dust.

_Let's go,_  he told the spirit, and his Lethrblaka mount flipped backwards through the air and then propelled itself forward in an enormous burst.

Fírnen followed, and a wall of shrieking Lethrblaka sank behind him.

Murtagh reeled back his sword of light and then swung in a wide arc. His Lethrblaka's beak hit the black wall of the mountain, sending a ripple across the dark surface, and then Murtagh's sword struck and cleaved a hole straight through it. His Lethrblaka wailed, and its neck snapped as it hit the wall. The dark creature toppled over itself, flipping through the air. Murtagh let out a cry as up became down and as black walls and blue skies whirled together in a massive, spinning vortex. He lost his grip on the Lethrblaka and tumbled through the air. A massive blur of glinting sapphire shot past him, and then his vision went dark as he hit solid ground.

A triumphant dragon roar shook the ground and the air like a violent clap of thunder. Then arose a chorus of shrill screams from the Lethrblaka, and then one after another, they were silenced.


	34. Keeper of Balance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and commenting. It really is an honor. I know time is a precious commodity, and I appreciate that you're using some of it here~ Thanks again!

Hitting the ground should have hurt, but Murtagh's body shuddered not from pain but waves of power. Strength rushed through him, returning vitality to his limbs and clearing his mind. Gasping for the wind that was knocked out of him upon landing, he blinked the darkness out of his eyes. His Lethrblaka mount was strewn across a stone floor, its body twisted and broken—dead. Stone walls covered them on every side, and colors flickered off the walls as if on rippling water. Glaring sunlight shone through a gaping hole in the ceiling.

Lethrblaka dropped out of the heavens in every direction, and one crashed against the side of the keep and shook a plume of dust into the air. Then Saphira sailed past, her blue scales reflecting bright flashes of light, and smashed into another Lethrblaka and tore it apart in a matter of seconds. She leapt off it and zipped to another.

Murtagh's eyes fell as black mist curled around his feet and climbed his leg, and then he staggered back. All throughout the glowing keep did the darkness swirl in the air until it devoured the countless radiant Eldunarí and drowned out their light. The fog turned on nonexistent wind and wove into a tight ball in the corner of the room, stretching and growing until it filled half the keep.

Then black wings burst from its sides. A tail unwound itself from the darkness, and the creature stretched out a long and jagged head. Black matter slithered away from its striking sharp eyes that shone white, blinding and erratic. Its body quivering with energy, the creature shook itself and roared louder than any dragon or Lethrblaka.

Covering one ear but not releasing the glowing white sword in his hand, Murtagh pressed his back to a wall. As with all of the dark spirits, it raised its head and opened its enormous beak, tongue lapping at the ceiling, and then the world around it crumbled to dust, dragon egg and Eldunarí alike.

Thrusting into its head with his mind, Murtagh tried to unravel its powers and the malice that ate away at its being, but all he found was air. It was not a void, not a consciousness, not even the strange and empty feeling of nothingness. It was real, tangible air. Murtagh blinked at the creature, his face falling into a frown.

"You're not really here," he murmured to the creature, and it squawked and shuddered as darkness swirled and became a part of it. It grew in size until its wings scratched the ceiling. It was both physical but not.

Murtagh's heart thumped in his chest and his breath hitched in his throat. A cold sweat broke out across his brow and rolled down his temple. He tugged at the visible threads around the Eldunarí and dragon eggs but could not prevent their power from seeping away, for as soon as he defended some, the dark spirit attacked others. Its mind was far more powerful and more reaching than his.

An enormous boom from above jolted Murtagh's concentration and sent him to his knees. Dust and shards of stone rained over him from the ceiling. Fírnen rolled across the roof, one of his wings dangling through the gap, and he lay in a motionless heap. Black matter flitted away from his form. The dark spirit barked in triumph, its enormous and spiked tail flicking back and forth. As Fírnen faded, the spirit grew.

Murtagh rose and took a single step towards the dark spirit, and then he froze. The threads of the Eldunarí, the dragon eggs, and Fírnen waned, but several strings of light grew ever stronger. Near the dark spirit they were faint but across the keep they shone brighter than the sun. Murtagh turned on his heels and commanded the dust to clear, sweeping the air with a gust of wind. He choked.

The brilliant blue blade of Brisingr scraped across the rock floor of the keep as Eragon lifted it into his hand. He was at the end of the blazing threads, and dark smoke coiled around him. Black veins crawled across his skin, up his neck and over his face, and his eyes flickered white like lightning in the deepest, darkest storm.

Stumbling backwards, Murtagh gasped for air. Barely above a whisper, he murmured, "Was it really in you all this time?"

Eragon's face was static, like a corpse. The dark spirit howled and ate away at the world, and though it grew in size, its energy poured across the threads into Eragon. Murtagh had only enough time to touch a single thread attached to his sibling before Eragon moved, and his brother disappeared in a flash and reappeared behind him, sword swinging. Murtagh toppled backwards and deflected with magic, but not before the sword left a clean gash through his forearm. It severed his protective wards entirely in a single touch.

Rolling to evade another swing of Brisingr's blade, Murtagh flipped onto his feet and caught the next blow with Zar'roc. Eragon retreated and then swung from the left, withdrew and then struck from the right, always moving and never lingering on any particular motion. Murtagh deflected each strike and slipped behind Eragon, but his sibling followed with his sword whirling in a wide arc.

Murtagh blocked, focusing his attention on the threads wrapping around Eragon. He tugged at them and started to rearrange them, but his sibling turned around him and swung with several successive blows, knocking him off balance and forcing him to defend. Blue and red blades clashed, and Murtagh reminded himself to ignite Zar'roc with swirling white energy. It was not a physical battle he needed to win but one of spirit and mind.

Parrying another swing, Murtagh pushed Eragon off balance for a single second. It was all he needed. He dove across the space between them, caught Eragon's sword arm under his, and rammed them both into a wall. Brisingr swept up and dug into his shoulder, but Murtagh did not relent and leaned his full weight against Eragon, twisting his arm just enough to bind and weaken it. Eragon kicked at him and then attacked with his spirit-laden mind. Murtagh smirked and accepted the invitation for mental warfare and dove into Eragon's head with every ounce of strength he had.

Murtagh was not pulled in this time. Rather, vast and powerful walls resisted his touch, and the spirit in Eragon lashed back at him. Every touch from the dark spirit was like a leather whip snapping across his head. He pushed and the spirit pushed back, and then Eragon crumbled and broke free of his grip. Murtagh dropped on top of him with his knee on Eragon's chest even as Brisingr's blade clipped his side.

Another crash shook the keep, and a wall tumbled down. Heat rolled over them like fire. Saphira stood on the ceiling and roared, and her eyes wavered between blue and white, and she set them upon Murtagh. Darkness rippled across her scales.

Against Eragon he stood a chance, but against Saphira there was no hope. Pressing Eragon's neck into the ground to still him, Murtagh lunged once again into his sibling's mind, chiseling at a single point until he cracked the wall, and then he dove through it. The barriers around Eragon's mind shattered like glass.

Suddenly, they were on the Burning Plains, and dark clouds swirled out of the sky and rushed across the charred ground. Blazing eyes peered down out of the darkness like gaping holes in the night, and tendrils spread towards the ground like reaching hands. They were close and moving fast, swallowing everything that they touched.

Heat assaulted Murtagh and seared his flesh. His eyes watered and his lungs burned as they filled with smoke. Not far off from him, Eragon sat on his knees with his head bowed. Fissures surrounded him and flashed with liquid fire. Murtagh ran the short distance to him, leaping over a crack in the burnt earth, and stumbled to his side. Taking Eragon's shoulders, he gave a shake.

"Wake up," he ordered, coughing immediately after, and Eragon did not respond. He stared at the earth without blinking. Murtagh shook him again. "Eragon!"

The dark clouds came ever closer, and the world behind it was completely empty, a void in which nothing could exist. Behind Murtagh but far away was the dark wall that separated his mind from Eragon's.

"Snap out of it," Murtagh said, and he shook Eragon again. Eragon's head bobbed, and still his eyes did not blink, did not move. Cursing, Murtagh grabbed the front of Eragon's tunic and hauled him to his feet. Eragon crumbled, and Murtagh went to the ground with him. They landed on their knees, face to face. "Eragon, you have to wake up!"

Eragon shook his head slow, and then he shifted and blinked at Murtagh. His lips released a puff of air. Tears filled his eyes and his breathing labored. "What happened to you…?"

Murtagh only had time to frown, and then a slim sword ran through his gut. The blade was cold as ice and yet it burned like fire under his skin. He lurched forward and gasped, clinging to Eragon's shoulders. Reality blurred with the nightmare in Eragon's mind. In the keep, an elf with glowing white eyes stabbed Murtagh once and then swung again. Murtagh retreated from his mental fight long enough to hurl several elves back, pinning them with a spell, and then he returned to the Burning Plains with Eragon. He shoved the pain down.

"We need to go," he said, and he tried again to pull Eragon off the ground.

Eragon staggered and landed again on his knees, his head rolling from one side to the other. "This is not real. None of this is real."

"You're right, but those shadows are real and they're coming for you." Murtagh tried again to make him stand, but Eragon remained limp and useless. He hit his knees and slapped Eragon before shaking his shoulders. "Eragon, listen to me! We need to move!"

"I'm sorry," Eragon said, and finally he met and held Murtagh's gaze. Life returned to him slowly. "I let you down."

It was strange hearing those words. Murtagh opened his mouth but could not produce a sound. Darkness crept around them, closing them in, and dragged his attention away from Eragon. A thunderous roar shook the ground beneath them and filled their ears, and deep within was the sound of laughter. Galbatorix's laughter. Murtagh's skin crawled.

"Let's go." Murtagh took Eragon's wrist and pulled him up, and this time Eragon stood.

Together they ran, and Murtagh kept a grip on Eragon. The ground crumbled beneath them, breaking apart and sinking into liquid fire. Flames launched out of cracks and sprayed embers into the air. The shadows stretched around them and nearly enclosed them within it, but they slipped between its reaching fingers and sprinted for freedom.

Freedom was so close, and then Murtagh hit an invisible wall. His torso lurched forward, and sharp, jagged edges tore into his stomach and spilled warm blood down his skin. Then he was hurled backwards through the air, crashing into the ground. His grip on Eragon, both in mind and body, broke. Flung again into his physical body, he slid across the stone floor of the dragon's keep and left a trail of blood behind him.

Saphira stood over Eragon with a paw raised and claws extended. The blood on her talons was Murtagh's. Darkness clouded her form.

Blood roared in Murtagh's ears. Like a distant echo, the dark spirit shrieked within the keep, and its shadow body had expanded and shattered parts of the ceiling. The colors of the Eldunarí had faded. Fírnen was white, vanishing like smoke. Ignoring the gashes in his flesh, Murtagh dove again into Eragon's mind.

Eragon stood there, waiting, and the shadows swirled in a tight vortex around him. They licked at his skin and left black marks on him, and he recoiled. Murtagh pressed through the darkness that pushed back at him like a violent wind until he reached his brother's side. He caught Eragon with an arm and dragged him to the ground, covering him with his body so the shadows could not reach him.

Murtagh turned his mind to the spirit, jabbing it with sharp mental thrusts and pushing it back. It was ineffective. The spirit was much stronger now, powered by hundreds of Eldunarí and countless elves, not to mention a Rider and his dragon. Defeating it was impossible. Instead of clinging to false hope, Murtagh held fast to the one thing he could: his brother.

On their knees again, Murtagh sheltered Eragon's head and pressed their foreheads together. Countless emotions flashed through Eragon's eyes as the spirit overwhelmed him and filled him with its hatred and despair. Clasping his brother's face, he forced Eragon's gaze to meet his own. Both of them were panting, sweating, and Eragon's face was drawn and pale.

"I'll make a way. Run," Murtagh said, and then he coughed, smoke burning in his chest. He focused his attention on the spirit for possibly the last time, bracing his mind to strike with everything left in him. His strength seeped out of him as his blood dripped onto the blackened ground. No longer could he tell if it was real or an illusion.

"I'm not leaving you." Eragon clasped his shoulder.

"Eragon," growled Murtagh, and he pushed at the darkness as it piled over them. It was like water, crushing and suffocating them.

"I'm not leaving you!"

Murtagh clasped the back of Eragon's head, their foreheads pressed together, and then he wrapped his arm around him and pulled him into an embrace. As he did, Murtagh's mind cleared of pain and sorrow. Eragon would live—he would make certain of it. He held the brother he had lost but always wanted.

"I'm sorry," Murtagh whispered into Eragon's ear.

Eragon leaned back until they were face to face. His voice was quiet. "For what?"

"For this."

Murtagh reeled back and punched Eragon hard in the face, sending his brother backwards and to the ground. Then Murtagh grappled at the shadows, at the ground, at the very world around them and pulled it apart at the seams. Fleeing was no longer logical. Instead, he grappled at the edges of the world and yanked them near until everything simply disappeared beneath Eragon, sending him shouting into a black hole.

As soon as Eragon was gone, Murtagh released his grip on the world and screamed as pain stabbed through his head. The dark spirit squeezed him until he crumbled. Somewhere within the darkness, Galbatorix laughed and spoke words of death over him. Memories, terrible memories, and every bit of torture the king subjected him to, came alive in Murtagh again. His body contorted in agony and his mind fell to hostile attacks.

He had to seal the spirit again. Somehow, he had to keep it from reaching Eragon and the others. But Murtagh's mind was tired and his body broken. He blinked into the darkness, into the blinding, flashing lights that were the spirit's eyes. Everything blurred together, and the whirring shadows were deafening.

_Get up._

A faraway voice spoke, but over the booming darkness, Murtagh could not place it. Blood streaked his skin and stained his clothes from the gashes in his stomach, and his heart was pounding too fast.

_Stand up and fight._

It was a familiar voice that came with a hint of a growl. Tipping his head to the side, Murtagh saw colors within the darkness. Blues, reds, yellows and every color in between.

_Your fight is not over yet!_  A dragon's roar shook the ground on which he lay, and Murtagh exhaled a strangled breath.  _On your feet!_

"I can't," Murtagh murmured, and he turned his head away. Colors were on every side now, glowing ever brighter.

_Rise, youngling,_  said another voice, familiar and deep, and it hurt Murtagh worse than the torture the shadows inflicted upon him. It reminded him that he was a monster and that there was no hope for him. A golden light blinked in the darkness.  _All will be lost if you do not fight them._

_Fight it!_  The first voice spoke again, and a streak of blue cut at the darkness. Murtagh caught a glimpse of her sapphire scales.  _Eragon will die!_

"I can't." His voice broke, and then he coughed until his chest burned and a copper taste hit his tongue. His body ached. The darkness was inviting now, and he could use some sleep. Fighting was too hard, and it was hopeless. He was hopeless.

Saphira roared, and it was close. Her claws reached for him through the whirling shadows, and then her snapping fangs followed. The darkness held her back.  _Get up!_

A dozen or more voices echoed her until their clamoring drowned out the darkness.

"I'm tired," Murtagh muttered, but still he rolled over and pushed himself off the ground with one hand. The other followed a second later, and then he was on his knees. Even as he moved, he said, "I can't."

The dragons kept calling.

Fire crept through his veins as the spirit replayed Galbatorix's torture in his mind and in his body over and over again. Pain was familiar, always present. It did not stop him. Blinking a film off his eyes, he searched the darkness for the threads with which the spirit manipulated the world. It was harder to find in someone else's head, like trudging through deep mud. But they were there, faint though they were, and he rose.

One step forward followed by another. He staggered into the darkness, and a fierce wind hit him. Leaning forward, he kept moving. Step forward. Step forward. Clasping one of the threads in his shaking hand, he pulled until it fell free of the shadows, and then he reached for another. He tugged them free and tied them together, and then he moved on to the next.

String after pulsing string, he tore them down and wove them into new patterns. The wind ceased first and then the shadows. Yet as the dark spirit's grip failed, Murtagh's pain increased as the spirit poured the full weight of its sorrow upon him. A hundred years of suffering fell on his shoulders. The spirit's pain, the pain of all the people and dragons harmed by Galbatorix, all of it rested on Murtagh. Yet he kept tying strands.

Darkness fell apart and revealed a single shining light. It flitted around Murtagh and touched the tears on his face. Then it disappeared within him.

Murtagh shuddered, and his hands shook with violent tremors. Now that the darkness was gone—now that the danger was gone—all of the voices were quiet. He was left alone with his tears. It was silent, and nothing existed in that place, wherever he was. It was dark, like an endless void, and only his broken body remained. He stumbled to one knee. Perhaps now he could rest. Perhaps now he could sleep for a moment and forget what a monster he was.

As he set his head upon the ground, a glittering dust swirled under his nose. Shining white fog unfurled around him, and it glinted like crystal in sunlight. A rainbow of colors shone in his eyes. Murtagh sat up, and the glowing fog spread far and wide, and then it wrapped around him like a gentle hand and lifted him to his feet. By some power not his own, he remained standing. Murtagh turned, and he let out a cry and stumbled backwards.

Standing over him was an enormous being, as large as Shruikan, made entirely of light. Its body was blinding white yet rippled with color in erratic waves. It had a feline head and body, but it stretched out four feathery wings. Its tail flitted away from it like a cloud. Turning its head, it blinked at Murtagh with round eyes like gleaming stones.

It touched him with its mind, and hundreds upon thousands of memories poured into him, taking the breath out of his lungs. Most he did not understand. No human could.

"Y-you," he stammered, and then he clasped a hand to his head. "You are the spirit…" His voice wavered not in accusation but in desperation. "Where have you been?"

_By your power, you sealed me within yourself,_  said the spirit, and its form quivered.  _At the start of our union, when my power was in flux, I could not resist you._

The only spirit that could have helped them was sealed by Murtagh's power and rendered useless. How many lives had been lost because of his error? Thorn had been trapped in the body of a human, Saphira had been sealed and separated from Eragon, and the spirit had been kept from aiding them. Entire cities had fallen on account of his careless mistake.

"I'm sorry." Murtagh trembled. It was all he could say.

_Do not be._  The spirit kept its head high, its eyes glowing.  _Those tainted by malice obtained more power than I, and they would have devoured me in that moment if not for your actions. Creature of flesh, you saved me._

"I made a mistake," insisted Murtagh, and he shook his head. "A lot of people have died."

Its form rippled again, and the spirit bent down its head.  _And by your actions, many have been spared._

"Please tell me," began Murtagh, and he stepped closer to the glowing being. "What is happening?"

The spirit's wispy tail swirled around Murtagh and lifted him. Despite his injuries, it caused him no harm. The spirit turned him all around, and as it spoke, the darkness was filled with visions great and small as though Murtagh was a silent observer throughout history. First appeared Galbatorix, and he captured spirits, twelve in all, and enslaved them. The spirits resisted, but as the years progressed, his hatred consumed them.

_My kind is not like your kind, to be ruled by emotions,_  explained the spirit.  _Yet when we join in union with your kind, our constitution begins to change. Your malice becomes ours._

Next, the twelve spirits were freed from Galbatorix, and they spread across the land of Alagaësia and drowned in their suffering. As Galbatorix's memories and hatred overwhelmed them, they began to change into spirits of darkness. In pursuit of great power, they drained the land of its life and eventually sought Eragon and the Eldunarí.

_Those of my kind who become broken must be restored or they will perish. When my kind perishes, your world also perishes, for balance must exist between us._ The spirit shared with Murtagh images of a destroyed Alagaësia, dead from one end to the other.  _I am the keeper of balance. When my kind is in peril, I heal them. What is stolen is restored, and what is broken is healed. I exist to preserve both our worlds, and I have maintained balance since the beginning of time._

Visions passed by of Murtagh in the dragon's keep facing Eragon and the dark spirits for the first time.

_Yet this time is unlike any other. The malice was too great. And my kind's union with flesh empowered them beyond my reach. My kind fights my kind, and your kind fights your kind,_ said the spirit.  _Already I could not reach them, and I needed you, creature of flesh._

Then the spirit set Murtagh on the ground, and their pact came to the forefront of his mind. He had made two agreements with the spirit, one that would kill him and one that would erase him.

_By uniting with you, I became able to resist flesh with flesh. Much power is there when our kinds become one. It is a mingling of two separate worlds. Yet our unions are never easy, and it is inevitable. I will destroy you._

Thus was the pact that wore on Murtagh's body and would kill him.

_Yet you made a dire request,_  continued the spirit, and its entire body flashed in waves of color.  _For my kind and yours cannot come undone without one being destroyed. To spare the one who shares your blood, I took of myself and my world and transformed you. Now you are flesh and you are not. You can manipulate my world and yours. A perfect union capable of sparing my kind and yours._

Then the spirit turned its head, its eye glinting like an enormous diamond.  _Yet now my world wanes, for you draw of our life and give nothing in return. Such imbalance must not remain or both our worlds will perish._  It was calm as it added,  _Balance requires exchange. I will take your existence in place of what has been lost._

Thus was the pact that erased Murtagh from existence.

"Is it really necessary?" Murtagh asked, and he clasped a hand over his chest. Blood still dripped from gashes in his stomach, but there was no pain. His body was numb. "Can you not simply take back the power you have given me?"

_It would not be enough,_  said the spirit, its tail flicking in a nonexistent wind. Its light went on forever and left sprinkles like stars in the darkness.  _You have used our power, converted it, in ways even I cannot explain. You are a unique existence. Even your life may not be enough to restore balance._

"I understand." Still, Murtagh frowned. It did not matter to him, not really, and it mattered to no one else, yet it ate at him because some pathetic part of him did not want to be forgotten. "But must I be erased?"

_It is necessary for balance. Your very nature must be taken to fill the void in my world, and your Name will be lost. Instead, you will be as I am._ Its tail curled around again but did not touch Murtagh.  _I will rework the foundations of your world and mine in order to remove you from one and place you in another._

"What of a spell to create life?" Murtagh asked, though he already knew the answer. It was wishful thinking and nothing more. "If nothing remains, then perhaps something new can be—"

_It is not in the nature of balance to make something that is not into something that is, for there is always a cost,_  said the spirit.  _Whether it is from my world or yours, creating life takes life from another._

Murtagh nodded. If he disappeared, he disappeared. So be it.

Lowering its head again, the spirit asked,  _Do you regret your decision, creature of flesh?_

Rubbing the back of his head, Murtagh frowned into the void. In all his travels as of late, it was something he had not stopped to ponder deeply. There was no point in dwelling on something that could not change. Meeting eyes with the spirit, he whispered, "Will Thorn forget about me? Will he be able to take a new Rider or live free as a wild dragon?"

_It will be as though you never existed,_  the spirit said.  _It will not grieve your loss, for one cannot grieve what it never had._

"Then no," Murtagh answered honestly despite the dull ache in his chest. "I don't regret it."

_Then let us continue._  The spirit's entire body shivered. Lights flashed around Murtagh and filled the empty space.  _You have become my vessel, my chosen instrument. Rid my kind of malice and spare your kind despair. We will restore balance, and our worlds shall live._

Everything turned white, and the spirit began to fade. It settled again in Murtagh's mind, quiet but very much alive. And then darkness followed, and finally, Murtagh slept.


	35. White Mountain

Murtagh took a long time in waking. Warmth cradled him on every side, soothing the ache right out of his muscles. His head was heavy, foggy, but the persistent throbbing was gone. When he took a breath, his lungs filled with air and not smoke or blood. The holes in his skin and his gut were gone, and he patted his stomach to make sure.

A dim, flameless lamp lit the stone walls of the cavern where he lay. Wood weaved together in intricate ways to create tables and chairs. A wardrobe of tightly woven threads of bark stood against one wall. Murtagh sat up in a bed, and as soon as his bare skin was exposed to the air, a violent shiver ran down his spine. He tugged the woolen blanket around himself and held fast to it.

Far to one end of the cavern was an enormous opening large enough for a dragon, though only darkness crept inside. Not far from the bed, tucked against the back wall of the cavern, was some sort of enormous nest—something fit for a dragon. Bound to the stone wall by vines that crept everywhere was a  _fairth_  with Selena's likeness on it, her image both strong and beautiful. Murtagh stared at it briefly and then looked away. It must have been Eragon's new dwelling.

Angela's satchel of medicine sat on the table along with a bundle of fabric and Zar'roc. Murtagh dragged the blanket with him off the bed and went to the table, drinking a vial of medicine to combat his growing fever. Then he sifted through the garments and found his former attire cleaned and repaired. Even after dressing, he could not part with the blanket and remained perfectly fixed in a tight bundle.

Several books were propped on a small bookshelf, and Murtagh crouched and read the titles. A few of them were rare, one of a kind. If the circumstances had been different, he would have crawled into bed with them and spent the remainder of the day—or the night, whatever it was—and read himself into oblivion. Time was precious now, though, and so he left them as they were.

Instead of lingering any longer, he folded the blanket and set it on the bed, gathered his sword, and went out the enormous opening. A mild breeze rustled his hair on the way out, and stars blinked at him from straight ahead. Wherever he was, he was high up. Beyond the opening was a narrow ledge that overlooked the enormous stronghold built for dragons.

The stronghold consisted of vast courtyards and ample open space. High stone towers reached for the heavens, and platforms large enough for dragons protruded from their walls. The dragon's keep was in the center of several smaller stone buildings. Most of the rubble from their battles was already gone. Several of the stone buildings were missing walls or had half-built second layers. Heaps of stone filled the area. It was still a work in progress.

On the outer edges of the stronghold, trees were sung into elven dwellings. Eragon and Saphira alone lived up high in such a place. Certainly Saphira did not fit well into a tree, so they had to make an exception. A winding staircase was created of stone and bent wood all the way down, and Murtagh descended. When he was halfway down the mountain slope, he paused.

In one of the courtyards, Fírnen lay on the ground without moving, his wings folded tight at his back. Arya was near him, always keeping her hand on him, and many other elves stood by. Eragon and Saphira were with them, but their backs were turned to him. They were too far to be clearly heard, but the tones of their voices were melodic, jovial. Every now and again, Eragon would lean against Saphira, and she would wrap her wing around him.

Perhaps Thorn had returned to his true form now that the spell was broken.

Murtagh could look at the reunion no longer, for it was not his right and not his place. He went down the stairs and ventured across rough stone walkways until they took him beyond the thick stone walls. No guards stood near the gate. Beyond the walls were steep and jagged trails down the mountainside that eventually gave way to forests of vast and towering pines. With no destination in mind, he kept walking. This was more his place, this barren emptiness where nothing and no one existed.

Finally he reached a slight clearing and stopped. Water had gathered in a small, rocky pool, and it reflected the starlight like a flawless mirror. Pine needles crunched under his boots in the tall grass. Bathed in pale moonlight, a few small boulders littered the clearing, and Murtagh set himself on one and stared at the sky. Wind rustled branches all around him, and finally, now that it was quiet, a host of insects and frogs filled the night with song.

"Are you there?" he asked the spirit, and he prodded it with his mind.

_I am,_  it said.  _Have you need of me?_

"No."

So the spirit no longer slept and was a constant observer from the back of his mind. Once upon a time, the invasion would have bothered him, but Murtagh could not muster the energy to care at all.

Night crept by, and the moon reached from one side of the clearing to the next. Murtagh eventually slid off the boulder and leaned against it, sitting in the grass. A few times he dozed in the midst of his thoughts, but for the most part, sleep eluded him. It was for the best. Too many nightmarish memories haunted him, and if he had to hear Galbatorix's voice one more time, he would lose his sanity.

Then suddenly, darkness swallowed the moon and all went quiet. Murtagh was on his feet with Zar'roc drawn before he even lifted his head. A blur of blue invaded his line of sight, and then Saphira crashed into the clearing and scattered the stars along the surface of the water. She folded her wings, snorting a harmless puff of fire into the air, and then she sat. One of her eyes settled on him, unblinking.

"You're a little far from home," he said. Fastening Zar'roc to his belt, he turned away from her. Hair stood on the back of his neck from her lingering gaze.

_As are you,_  she replied, and there was a sharp edge to her mental tone.

Murtagh leaned against a boulder but did not sit, and his hand lingered on Zar'roc's pommel. Their last several encounters had not been positive ones. After a stretch of silence, he rose to leave, aiming down the mountain rather than up it.

_You almost allowed the spirit to take Eragon,_  said Saphira, and he froze.  _Fírnen and the rest of my kin as well. All almost perished while you did nothing._

Murtagh opened his mouth to speak and found no words. His hand left Zar'roc and fell to his side. It was a terrible truth—that in one disgusting moment of weakness he had nearly cost the world the last of the dragons and Riders. Between this and Morzan stealing the spirits he was trying to save, Murtagh was failing quite miserably at the task he had accepted.

His voice caught in his throat, but he managed to say, "It won't happen again." Then he kept walking.

Saphira's wings snapped out, and a rush of wind filled the clearing. Murtagh gasped as the dragon fell over him with a boom that shook the mountainside, her paws landing on either side of him. He stumbled backwards and hit the grass before scooting out from underneath her. Craning her head, she scrutinized him with one eye, and then she exhaled a cloud of smoke into his face and elicited a cough from him.

Murtagh scrambled to his feet and took only a single step back before she hit him with the heel of her paw and sent him to the ground again. Her claws settled just above his shoulders.

"Leave me alone," he growled, and he crawled under her so he could slip out from under one of her legs. As soon as he stood, Saphira dropped her wing on top of his head and put him back on the ground. Lights blinked across his vision despite her wing covering him. "Eragon and the others are fine. Leave me be!"

_I am fully aware,_  Saphira responded curtly.

Murtagh rolled away from her, but she followed him like a shadow. Once she tried to catch him under her paw, claws extended, and he narrowly slid past her, and then she persisted in folding her wing over him as if to smother him. If she were anything but a dragon—and his brother's dragon no less—he would have used magic, and despite what she was, he was getting very close to doing so anyway. He kicked her in the side and propelled away from her, but her wing hit him and planted him into the grass.

"If you are trying to eat me," he grumbled, "this is not how it usually works."

_I have no interest in eating you,_  Saphira said, and she patted him with her leathery wing.  _Surely you taste terrible, and there is not much meat to you. Hardly a worthwhile snack._

"Then let me go." Flipping off his back, Murtagh dove out from under her wing and sprinted for the trees. Saphira's spiky tail curled around and tripped him up, and he staggered and collapsed over it. She carried him back to her side. With a sigh, he hung limp over her and stared as the ground passed by. "What do you want?"

Saphira set him in the grass and turned her neck so she could look at him closely with one of her deep blue eyes.  _Do not think I have forgotten how you responded to me—to us—before you thought to oppose the spirit hurting my Rider,_  she said. Then she set her wing over him, pinning him down.

Murtagh cringed. He had responded like a selfish, childish, weak, and pathetic mess, and it made him sick. Even so, he crawled across the ground and tried to sneak out from beneath her. As soon as he reached fresh air, Saphira took a slight step forward and folded him in again. This time, she curled her wing and pressed him against her body before dropping him at her side.

_Persistent for a little human,_  she crooned.  _But you are tired, and I have been at rest for several weeks. I will certainly outlast you._

Murtagh had no doubt about that. Even then his head was spinning and his body ached, particularly when she threw him against her hard scales or when he fell to the ground, and his meager energy reserves were fading quickly. Nevertheless, he was perhaps more stubborn than a dragon. He would fight until she grew bored of him or finally ate him and got it over with.

Casting a harmless spell of fire near her head to distract her, Murtagh dove for the trees. Saphira snarled and then jumped on him again. This time her paw caught him directly, and her claws dug into the ground and shackled him.

Snorting over his head a puff of sulfurous air, she bared her teeth.  _Push me and I may very well eat you._

"Go ahead," he insisted with a smirk. "And I hope I make you sick."

Saphira hummed, and her eyes shone. Murtagh was not particularly familiar with her mannerisms, but somehow he gathered she was amused. Drawing her claws away from him, she turned abruptly and put her wing over him again.

Murtagh groaned. "What do you  _want_?"

_I want,_  she began, and then she tucked her wing under him again and drew him against her side,  _you to rest._  Settling on the ground, she kept her wing over him like a tent.  _If you were going to surrender at a time when Eragon needed you most, then certainly you were at your limit._

Murtagh stared at her scales, each one like a finely polished piece of glass, and then blinked at the covering she placed over him. So she was not trying to punish him. Strength drained from his muscles, and his eyelids drooped as the warmth from her body enveloped him.

He ran a hand over his face. "You should go back to Eragon."

_I will. Later._

Murtagh winced and rubbed his eyes. It was becoming a challenge to keep them open, and his body was dead weight. As darkness took him, he muttered, "You are the worst."

Her body vibrated against his as she hummed. Quietly she said to him as he drifted to sleep,  _As are you. Now rest._

\-----

Someone kept saying his name. Quiet at first, and then it grew louder.

Murtagh rolled onto his side and then covered his head with an arm. The voice did not go away even after he covered his ears.

_Murtagh,_  Eragon spoke into his mind.

The blue canopy over Murtagh shifted and disappeared. Brilliant light washed over him and stung his eyes, and so he buried his face in the grass. His head was in a fog and every inch of him ached, but finally he hauled himself upright. Saphira sat beside him, stretching her legs and wings, tipping her head from side to side. Eragon entered the clearing without urgency. Murtagh had to blink several times and squint to make sure it was him.

"I put you in bed," started Eragon, huffing, and his eyebrows pinched together in feigned annoyance. His face was elvish now and his ears were pointed. "But instead you come out and sleep in the grass. Are you an elf?"

Murtagh rolled one shoulder and then the other, his joints achy and sore, and then he sprawled in the grass again and buried his face. No, he was not quite ready to try being human again. Eragon released a puff of air, akin to a quiet laugh, and his footsteps approached. When next Murtagh turned his head, a vial of medicine hung in his face. He took it from Eragon's hand and sat up again.

"It's easy to tell when your fever comes back," Eragon said, crouching beside him. Despite his weak smile, his eyes were filled with sorrow. "Your face is very pale."

Sighing, Murtagh took a drink but did not finish the vial. It should have been just enough to take the edge off his fever. When Eragon frowned at him, he sealed the vial and turned it over in his hand. "I'll need this medicine more when there is danger."

"Angela gave you plenty. You don't need to ration it," Eragon reminded him as he put a hand on Murtagh's forehead. Violent tremors ignited through Murtagh's body. Eragon clicked his tongue. "Especially not when your fever is this high."

"I'll take it when I need it." Murtagh tucked the vial in the pouch on his belt and then stood—and abruptly tottered and almost fell down. Eragon caught him until the world stopped swirling and he regained his sense of balance.

"Let's go back and have something to eat." Eragon tugged his arm in suggestion, leading him not up the trail but towards Saphira. "You're probably thirsty by now."

Thirst was a constant companion of fever, but Murtagh's tongue was particularly stuck to the roof of his mouth. He licked his cracked lips and rubbed the back of his head. Judging by the height of the sun in the sky, it was still early in the day. "I didn't sleep  _that_  long."

_A day and a half is quite long, actually,_  Saphira said, and she crouched as Eragon reached her side.  _Especially for your tiny little bodies._

"A day and a half!" Whatever fog that was in his head was gone now, and Murtagh's eyes shot wide open. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"Because you needed the rest." Eragon climbed on Saphira's back, nonchalant as could be. Then he flapped his hand for Murtagh to join him. "Come on."

Murtagh rubbed his brow and growled. Rest was beneficial but was a luxury he did not have time for. Every moment he wasted resting was a moment Morzan or the spirits could attack and cause greater harm to Alagaësia. Rather than dwelling on already lost time, though, he determined only to keep it from happening again. He joined Eragon on Saphira's back, and she ferried them back to the hold.

To the west were grassy plains and a thick and winding river, and the mountainside was covered in vibrant green forests nearly halfway to its blazing white peak.

"What happened…?" Murtagh asked.

Eragon followed his gaze and then smiled. "When you released the spirit, everything was restored to how it should be."

Saphira hummed and curved around the mountain, giving them the full view, and then she glided into one of the courtyards. Fírnen slept on the other side, and Arya remained with him but stood upon their arrival. Murtagh and Eragon hopped to the ground as soon as Saphira landed, and Murtagh broke away from them and approached Fírnen. Only a few of his scales had any green in them at all, and the rest were translucent with a milky tinge.

"I can heal him again," Murtagh offered.

Arya met eyes with him for a moment and then faced Fírnen. She covered it well, but her movements were slow, pained. Her thin form had taken on a nearly wraith-like appearance. Muscles wasted away beneath her skin, and shadows hung under her eyes. Stepping back, she nodded.

Murtagh had grown so accustomed to stealing from the spirit that he did not bother asking permission. He tapped into the being's power and combined it with his own, transferring strength into the mind and body of not only Fírnen but the elves as well. It drained him far too quickly, for the others were terribly weak, but then dozens of different consciousnesses rallied around his own and lent him their strength. Dragons, young and old, empowered him, and he restored as much as he could before his body shuddered in protest and black crawled across his vision. He ceased his efforts and stumbled backwards, blinking rapidly.

Color spread from Fírnen's snout down to his tail, and though he remained weak, he managed to lift his head.  _Thank you._

Arya stared at her hand and turned it, and then she closed her fingers into a fist. Straightening, she frowned at Murtagh. "Are you well?"

"The Eldunarí helped," he said.

Setting his hand on Zar'roc, he scanned the bright blue skies. It was a perfect day, not too hot or cold, and it gave the impression that the world was safe. It was an illusion. The dragons would remain in danger for as long as Morzan and the spirits existed as they were, and so Murtagh closed his eyes and weaved spells of protection and sealing over the entirety of Mount Arngor. A film of light spread out from Murtagh and washed upon the ground before lifting into the sky. It went on until they could no longer see it and farther still. Murtagh made certain of it. Then he wavered and clasped his throbbing head.

Arya's face twisted into a frown, and she pressed her lips so tightly together that they turned white. Yet she spun without saying anything and ran her hand along Fírnen's jaw, and the dragon leaned into her touch.

She knew. Of course an elf would figure it out. Murtagh chided himself for being careless and for using the same spells. Surely she recognized the spell he had originally placed around Mount Arngor and matched it to those of Du Weldenvarden and Ilirea, for they were one and the same. He was lucky Eragon had no magical aptitude at the time otherwise his sibling would have learned the truth as well.

When Arya met eyes with him again, Murtagh dropped his gaze to the ground. He could ask her to keep it a secret, but that would mean acknowledging there was a secret to keep. And his presence that day was not the only thing he wanted to hide. And so he remained silent, and she did as well.

"We should eat," Eragon said, his attention jumping back and forth between them, and then he set his hand on Murtagh's forearm. Immediately he recoiled. "And take more medicine. You're burning up."

Murtagh sighed and drank the rest of the vial from earlier. Then he followed Eragon towards a door leading inside.

"Thank you," Arya said, causing both Murtagh and Eragon to glance back. Focused wholly on Murtagh and with much significance in her words, she added, "For what you have done."

At least for now, his secret would be safe. Murtagh nodded, and he and Eragon went inside.

\-----

Arya remained the only one besides Thorn who knew of Murtagh's initial visit to Mount Arngor. No one else said a thing about it, elf or dragon alike. Most only had faint memories of the attack, for the army of spirits had overwhelmed them quickly and completely in mind and body. It was for the best.

After having a meal with Eragon and several elves—and Murtagh was even allowed to sit at the same table as them!—they went to the dragon's keep which Eragon informed him was called the Hall of Colors. His Lethrblaka was still on the ground, lifeless. All around it shone a rainbow of Eldunarí. Their colors scattered across the walls.

"We didn't want to move it because of the spirit inside of it," Eragon explained, standing at a distance.

Murtagh knelt beside the Lethrblaka's head, setting his hand over its beak. Then he drew Zar'roc, sheathed it in glowing white, and stabbed it into the creature's body. The Lethrblaka shattered and turned to dust that dissolved into the air. Nothing of it remained but the shining spirit that had concealed itself inside it.

Murtagh rose and fastened his sword to his belt. The spirit circled him and stopped only when he raised his palm, and it settled on his fingertips. Tingling heat ran up his arm from the contact, and for some reason he could not help but smile. It was a strange sensation, for it was not his joy but the spirit's. Then it touched his chest and disappeared within him.

It joined him along with the spirit he had rescued from Eragon, and they existed as silent observers in the back of his mind along with the keeper of balance. Three spirits in all.

"If you are not a sorcerer," began Arya as she entered. In one hand she held a majestic bow of intricately carved wood and in the other she carried a quiver of arrows. "Then what are you?"

Murtagh folded his arms over his chest and tapped a foot on the floor. Good question. Yet he had no idea how to answer her, and so he said nothing.

Arya did not push him and simply offered him the bow and quiver. "I have heard that you excel in archery. Consider these an expression of our gratitude."

"I have a terrible habit lately of losing my weapons," Murtagh said without taking them.

"When someone offers you a gift, you should accept it." Whatever she was referring to, it was not the bow and arrows. Her tone was too serious for it.

With a slight frown, he received them from her. "Thank you."

"Fírnen and I will stay here in case trouble should arise," she explained, and now she spoke to both him and Eragon. "Our power is faint, but we will call for you if need be. In the meantime, we will fight."

"I wish I could do more, but it was not this spirit that took your power," Murtagh said. The spirit that stole their strength was still enslaved, a powerful puppet on Morzan's strings. He could not return what he did not have access to, and all he could offer was a temporary fix.

"You have done more than enough." Arya tipped her head at him. "Thank you for saving Fírnen's life."

"As I said, the Eldunarí helped with that." Murtagh scanned the hall.

For a room full of dragons, it certainly was quiet. It was not a surprise, though. Several of the Eldunarí had been abused by him under Galbatorix's command, and he had played a role in Glaedr's death, as well as the death of his Rider. His sins against them would forever outweigh any good he might do. At least in the end their hatred towards him would disappear along with him.

An elf entered the hall and gestured respectfully towards his queen, and then he said to Eragon, "Preparations for your journey are complete."

"Thank you," Eragon said, and he, Arya, and the newcomer aimed for the door.

Murtagh turned to follow and stopped when a familiar voice spoke into his mind, deep and gruff.  _Do you not intend to take any of us with you?_

Spinning, Murtagh scanned the room. A gold Eldunarí blinked at him from across the hall. He fastened his newly acquired weapons at his back and then allowed his hands to fall at his sides.  _No. It would not be right._

_You are defending all of Alagaësia,_ said Glaedr.  _It would be right of us to aid you._

"Murtagh," Eragon called out from the door. The others were not invited to this conversation, and they stared at him.

"Coming." Murtagh turned his back to the Eldunarí and ended the conversation with ease.  _My father will seek your power, and it would be foolish of me to place you within his reach. It would be a greater evil than what I have already done._

No one argued, and so Murtagh followed the others outside.

Saphira waited in the courtyard with Fírnen's two-person saddle on her back. She stretched her neck and wings high, her body swaying in a flashy display of blue.  _Are you ready?_

"Yes," Eragon said aloud, and he hoisted himself onto her back and began to fasten his legs into the saddle.

On the other side of the courtyard, Fírnen blinked at them without lifting his head. Despite his borrowed strength, he was still weak. If there was an attack and Murtagh's barriers fell, there would be little he could do. The elves were stronger than before, but without magic, they were terribly limited.

Murtagh used the spirit's power to wrap powerful wards around everyone at the castle. Faint lights rippled around Fírnen, Arya, the elves, and then Eragon and Saphira. He placed similar wards around the Eldunarí as well. Dizziness struck again and he swallowed hard several times to keep from losing everything he had just eaten.

Eragon glanced at his hand as the light passed over him, and then he shouted, "Stop doing that!" It was definitely not intended to be comical, but Murtagh coughed out a laugh. His brother scowled at him. "Are you trying to see how much energy you can use before you faint?"

"No, but I can," responded Murtagh with a lopsided smile. "I'm going to put so many spells on you—"

"Get on," Eragon grumbled.

Saphira vibrated as she hummed. At least someone was amused. She dipped low so that Murtagh could more easily climb into the saddle, and then she straightened as he fastened the buckles around his legs. Her wings stretched wide.

"May your travels be safe and your mission a success," Arya said to them as Saphira lifted off the ground. Then she turned her voice inward and spoke to Murtagh alone.  _And may you find what you came here looking for._

Murtagh blinked down at her as they took to the sky and said nothing.


	36. Rider and Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those of you who are reading this story and to those of you who have left comments and kudos. I appreciate your time!

For days, they flew with minimal interruption. Murtagh went against Eragon's persistent commands and did not take medicine during their flight, and he remained in a feverish haze. Every now and again, he would wake with a start to find his forehead digging into Eragon's spine, and once he woke with his arm pinned under Eragon's elbow. Murtagh never remembered falling asleep, and perhaps on more than one occasion he almost toppled off Saphira without realizing. At least his legs were secure.

The warm sunlight near Mount Arngor vanished behind clouds as they passed over the Hadarac Desert. Rain fell for a while and then turned to thick and heavy snow that poured in a dizzying and blinding frenzy. The dry desert had become a frozen tundra. Fierce wind buffeted Saphira and chilled them to the bone until Eragon used magic to shield them from it.

Halfway across the desert, the storm ceased, but the clouds darkened and the temperature continued to fall.

During one of his few moments of clarity, Murtagh scanned their surroundings with his mind. Threads appeared everywhere, some in vast and tangled knots, and others thin and sparse. Some shone brilliantly in all the colors of the rainbow, and others were lackluster, pale, or completely translucent. Strings stretched across the sky from one end of Alagaësia to the other and wormed across the ground. Yet there was nothing in the desert, not a single one.

_What are these exactly?_  he asked the spirit.

_It is a physical manifestation of my world,_  said the spirit of balance.  _You cannot yet perceive my world as I do, but in some manner this is it. Magic, as you call it, is a manipulation of my world._

_But you don't see the world as threads like I do?_  Murtagh frowned. Far south, the strings pulsed erratically.

_No. Even you who have become like me cannot see the world as I see it. It would destroy your feeble mind._

Yet the spirit let him try. Images like memories of the world from the dawn of time until the present flashed through his head and made him shudder. He fumbled and clasped the back of Eragon's tunic as lights and colors erupted all around him. In the first second, his head throbbed, and by the fifth second, he swallowed to keep from throwing up.

"Are you all right?" Eragon glanced back at him.

"Great," Murtagh muttered.  _Stop please!_

The spirit ceased and settled again in Murtagh's mind. It was not amused, not satisfied, not upset or concerned. It was simply sharing a fact that if any living creatures, great or small, tried to step into their world, they would cease to exist. It was impossible.

_But we touch your world all the time,_  Murtagh said.  _When we use magic, we are manipulating those threads._

_Creatures of flesh have long since tried to gain access to our world,_ agreed the spirit.  _However, your capabilities have and always will be limited by your frailty. What you call dragons are the most capable of interacting with our world, and in effect those who are united with them, but even then it is slight._  The spirit's energy rippled within him, sending little jolts through his limbs.  _It is why creatures of flesh that control my kind—or are controlled by them—are so powerful. They are able to touch what normally cannot be reached._

_Like using magic without words,_  Murtagh said, and the spirit fluttered in agreement.

What he was capable of doing by his pact with the spirit enabled him to reach far deeper in the world of magic than any others. It was fascinating, but of course it came with a cost. Magic with words destroyed humans and elves alike at the slightest error. It was far more costly to dip directly into the world of spirits.

Murtagh stared at the barren wasteland below.  _Why are there no threads here in the desert?_

_Because everything is dead._

_Everything?_

_When you scattered my kind, they came here. It was the first place to succumb to their power,_ said the spirit.

Murtagh did not doubt it. When he fell through a rift and awoke in the desert, it was particularly barren then as well. Sighing, he turned his gaze ahead. The world of white sprawled on for as far as the eye could see and eventually merged with the clouds on the horizon. Everything was so bleak.

Another few days passed, and snow went on forever. Trees had withered into gray husks that reached with knobby fingers out of the barren ground. Everywhere, it was quiet. When they rested, no birds sang and no bugs chirped. Only the wind made any noise at all, howling into the nights and roaring during the days. Soon, Alagaësia would be uninhabitable.

When they reached Ilirea, the sun setting through the clouds created an ominous fiery orange glow.

_Be on your guard,_  said Saphira, and she growled.  _Something is ahead of us._

"Take your medicine," Eragon demanded, and he turned in the saddle and presented Murtagh with a vial.

"Wh—" Murtagh accepted it with furrowed brow. "I am not a child, you know."

"Then stop acting like one."

The corner of Murtagh's lip twitched, as did one eyebrow. In one swift motion, he flicked Eragon's ear. Eragon let out a muffled cry and grabbed his head, whipping around to glare at him. Murtagh downed his medicine and tucked the empty vial into his belt.

_Hatchlings,_  Saphira growled, and now her frustration was definitely directed at them.  _Bicker later. Look!_

Against the blood red sky loomed the dark forms of several dozen Lethrblaka, small but numerous. They zipped across the glimmering barrier Murtagh had placed over Ilirea, and whenever they touched it, the barrier rippled like water. One Lethrblaka came from a distance and plunged directly into the wall of magic, crumpling with a shriek on impact, and it slid down the wall until it hit the ground, lifeless. The Lethrblaka barked at each other, circled the capital city, and then they filled the air with their high-pitched screams.

"At least we can be certain these barriers are strong," murmured Eragon without taking his eyes off the small army ahead of them.

Murtagh flinched. He had known Ilirea would be attacked in his absence, but Morzan certainly wasted no time. He undid the straps around his legs and climbed up on the saddle. With one hand he gripped Eragon for stability and drew Zar'roc with the other.

"What are you doing?" Eragon shouted and spun, grabbing at him and trying to force him back down.

"I'm going to put some of these things back in the ground." With that, Murtagh jumped.

Eragon yelled his name, and it was the last thing Murtagh heard before the wind snapped him away from Saphira in its frigid grasp. It hit so hard and fast that it took the air out of his lungs, and he spun through the air for a while trying to regain his senses. Then he tugged at the invisible strings of the world. Zar'roc transformed into a glowing white blade and a rift opened beneath Murtagh that he spun into with his feet straight down.

It was something akin to fainting, falling through empty space. Then suddenly, Murtagh dipped out of a different fissure and landed directly on a Lethrblaka's back. He thrust the shining sword straight through it. The Lethrblaka let out a strangled squeal and then exploded into a mist. Murtagh flipped through the air, ripped a hole in space, and reappeared over another Lethrblaka to do the very same thing. High above him, Saphira tackled one of the black creatures and snapped its neck.

Murtagh hopped from Lethrblaka to Lethrblaka, cutting them down in a single blow. It was taxing, though, and every jump through a rift sapped a significant amount of his strength. Sweat stung his eyes and made it increasingly difficult to keep his grip on Zar'roc. Colors blurred together.

_Murtagh!_  Eragon called to him as they soared just over his head. His sibling pointed, and Murtagh followed with his eyes.

A slim Lethrblaka whirled past all the others, and atop it rode a man with rippling scarlet hair and glaring crimson eyes. Tornac—or the Shade that he had become. In one hand he held a sword and in the other he held the burning flames of magic. The Shade launched the spell at nothing, and the flames exploded and shot in every direction. If not for the wards protecting them, the fire would have reached all of them and the city below.

Grinding his teeth, Murtagh fell into a fissure and jumped out over the Shade's head. He swung the glowing blade of Zar'roc to hit both rider and mount in one fell swoop. The Shade turned and caught Zar'roc with his bare hand, and the magic around the blade fizzled out. Murtagh's eyes went wide as his former mentor's mouth curled in a feral smile.

"I am stronger than you," said the Shade, and then he blew Murtagh off the Lethrblaka's back with a burst of red magic.

Zar'roc went flying, and Murtagh caught the metal with his mind and drew it back to him. His hand fumbled in the air for it, and he haphazardly tied it to his belt. Then he drew the bow, wrapped an arrow in blazing white, and shot it at the Lethrblaka. It flew straight and fast despite the wind, but the arrow bounced off an invisible ward and fell away.

Spinning, Murtagh shot magic-imbued arrows at any Lethrblaka within his range. The arrows whistled through the air on a straight trajectory and always hit their marks, and the dark creatures exploded at their touch and turned to dust.

Murtagh turned into another rift and reappeared over the Shade, arrow at the ready. He shot at his head, though it bounced away without effect by magic, and then he drew Zar'roc again and swung. The Shade answered with his own sword, and their blades clashed in a burst of sparks. Murtagh planted his feet on the Lethrblaka and pressed his weight forward, but the creature jerked out from beneath him and sent him tumbling through the air.

Everything whirled together, and Murtagh's stomach did flips. It would have been a terrible time to throw up. He fell into a rift and tried to find Saphira, and her scales and spikes tore at his leather jerkin as he rolled over her. Eragon cried out and clawed at him as he fell over them, and he managed to snag Murtagh's belt. Murtagh collapsed over Saphira and gasped for air, and then he forced himself upright. His arms shook.

_Are you all right?_  Eragon asked, and he kept a hold on his belt.

_Never better._

Saphira roared and hit another Lethrblaka, clawing at it as they tumbled through the air together, and then she tore its neck.

The Shade ignored them and went for the barrier, power seeping out of him in a glowing red aura. Then he hurled balls of fire upon the wall protecting the city, and the barrier shuddered. Murtagh's hold on it weakened but only slightly. Growling, Murtagh jumped off Saphira even as Eragon tried but failed to hold him.

_Murtagh!_  shouted his brother after him.

Murtagh dipped through a hole and reappeared with flames rolling off his fingertips over the Shade's head. The Shade smirked and turned, and he answered with fire of his own. Flames burst between them and spread across the sky, and the limited wards of protection around Murtagh crumbled. He hit the Lethrblaka with one foot and swung Zar'roc, but the Shade deflected his blow. Both launched another burst of explosive energy, and Murtagh went flying. Zar'roc fell.

Turning in the air, Murtagh shot a gleaming arrow at the Lethrblaka's underbelly. Its wards had failed, too. The glowing arrow struck, and the Lethrblaka exploded. The Shade plummeted and vanished in the darkness below. Spinning, Murtagh shot at several Lethrblaka until only a few arrows remained.

_Murtagh! Look out!_  Eragon yelled from above.

A Lethrblaka had escaped him, and its claws reached him before he even saw it. Its sharp talons only grazed his arm and flicked the bow out of his hand. And then, just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished, swept away by a brilliant streak of red.

Murtagh blinked and stared into the heavens, and tears wet his eyes.

"Thorn!" he screamed, and he had to force out the name when it caught in his throat.

Thorn, in all his glory as a dragon, tore the Lethrblaka in half and threw it to the earth. Then the full weight of Thorn's mind crashed into Murtagh's, and it was as if they had never been apart. Their thoughts and feelings wrapped together in perfect harmony. Murtagh spun and dipped into a rift, reappearing over Thorn, and without a word his dragon caught him with ease.

Murtagh pressed his face to Thorn's sharp scales.  _You're back,_  he whispered.

_Our reunion must wait,_  Thorn told him, but it was not without compassion. Murtagh was filled with Thorn's warmth and affection as the dragon lent him his strength. After being without it for so long, it was overwhelming.  _Let us make quick work of our enemies._

Murtagh nodded and straightened, clinging to one of Thorn's white spikes. He reached to the earth and plucked Zar'roc off the ground, hauling it back into his hand. Igniting it with magic, he swung at Lethrblaka as Thorn zipped past them, and those he missed Thorn defeated with ease. Saphira and Eragon covered their backs.

Flames sprang up around the defensive barrier shielding Ilirea, and Murtagh grimaced as it weakened. He patted Thorn and said,  _I'm going._

_If he harms you, he is_ mine, Thorn replied.

In such a short period of time, Murtagh had forgotten. Forgotten what it was like to be loved. His chest ached not from his own feelings but from Thorn's. Wetness stung his eyes, but he blinked it away. Inhaling a long, slow breath, he jumped and plummeted to the ground. Over his head, Thorn and Saphira dealt with the remaining Lethrblaka, picking them off one after the other.

Murtagh dropped into a rift and then landed steady on the snowy ground near the barrier's edge. It took a while for his vision to adjust, and everything whirled around him in hazy dark blurs. When he caught his breath, the dizziness ceased. Wood snapped behind him, and he spun on his heels.

The Shade held one half of Murtagh's broken bow in each hand, and then he cast the weapon to the ground. Murtagh attacked the threads around the Shade in order to reach the spirit inside, but the Shade raised a single finger. A powerful pulse of energy thrust Murtagh back. The Shade's eyes gleamed in the faint light of the barrier, and he bared his teeth in a grin.

"You cannot defeat me," said the Shade with absolute confidence. "For there is only one way to kill a Shade, and you do not have it in you." Then his eyes went wide and wild, and he clasped the withered remains of Tornac's face in one hand. "You love this man too much."

He was not wrong. A cold sweat broke out across Murtagh's skin, and he shivered. He turned Zar'roc in his hand, squeezing the grip. He prodded the air around the Shade in an effort to find something to tear them apart, to separate human from spirit, but a fierce mental slap broke his connection. Wincing, he staggered backwards.

"Tsk tsk," said the Shade, waving his finger back and forth. "You are only a human pretending to be my kind. You will never overpower me."

Murtagh had every intention of proving him wrong and stabbed at him again. The Shade did not even blink, and he deflected the attack and retaliated hard enough to bring Murtagh to one knee.

Standing abruptly, ignoring his pounding headache, Murtagh asked, "What are you called?"

"You may call me Tornac," the Shade answered with a gleefully melodic tone. "Since you treasure the name so much." Violent trembling overtook Murtagh as the Shade stepped closer. It was the body of Tornac but nothing else, not his mannerisms, not his attitude, not even his voice. The Shade's head tipped to one side, his smile diminishing. Gentle words left his lips and hit hard like icy spears in Murtagh's chest. "How dearly this man loved you." Then his smile returned, sharp and glaring. "His last thoughts were of you… before I devoured him."

Murtagh screamed and closed the distance between them, Zar'roc swinging. The Shade did not flinch and kept smiling. The blade of Zar'roc hit his side and bounced back as if striking solid rock, and a jolt of pain shot up Murtagh's arm. The Shade grabbed the sword with his bare hand and yanked it out of Murtagh's grasp. Murtagh retrieved it with magic and swung again, and the Shade simply caught it on his palm.

_This one you cannot save,_  said the keeper of balance in his head.  _I warned you of this. Already their union is complete, and the flesh is already lost. You must strike the heart._

"No!" Murtagh yelled, and he lit Zar'roc, his body, and the ground with spirit-rending magic. Yet as he swung, as he approached, his energy was snuffed out like a tiny flame in a waterfall. The Shade never stopped smiling with Tornac's face, and Murtagh screamed again. One swing after another, and he never touched him.

_Strike the heart! Only then will you be able to reach and free my kind within it,_  the spirit ordered.

Murtagh dove and hit the Shade in the side with Zar'roc, and his enemy caught the sword and held it. No matter what, he could not raise the blade to Tornac's chest. The Shade released the sword and caught Murtagh's arm, drawing him close with supernatural strength.

"My child," he whispered into Murtagh's ear with Tornac's voice.

Murtagh shook, and suddenly his arm went numb. Where the Shade held him, where Tornac's hand touched, his clothing and skin melted away and turned to dust. Raw flesh and muscle crumbled next.

_Quickly!_ said the keeper.

Screaming again, eyes filling with tears, Murtagh snatched the last of his arrows, flipped them between his fingers, and plunged them into the Shade's head. The Shade recoiled and let out a piercing shriek, eyes bulging, and then it exploded into a fine dust and disappeared. Murtagh dropped the arrows and Zar'roc, staggering backwards. An enormous weight pressed on his chest, and he gasped for air. His arm was covered in blood, and the bone stuck out through half-dissolved muscle. Frozen, he stared at it.

_Murtagh!_  Eragon's voice reached him, and then Saphira hit the ground ahead of him.

A few more Lethrblaka crashed around him, but Murtagh heard nothing but sickening silence. The spirit stirred in him with something akin to disappointment. Blood poured from his arm to the ground, and he could not stop shaking.

Eragon leapt out of the saddle and ran to him. He paused when he saw the blood, and then he caught Murtagh's arm and began to heal it. His voice trembled as he asked, "What happened?"

What happened is that Murtagh had failed. He had not defeated the Shade or freed Tornac from his forced servitude, and now many more people were likely to die. He had failed. Yet he could say none of that, and instead he blinked at the broken pieces of the bow half buried in the snow. Panting between words, he said, "He broke my bow."

Eragon glanced at the bow and then returned his attention to Murtagh's arm. After he finished healing him, he clasped his arm in both hands and held fast. Softer this time, he asked, "What happened?"

Something crashed behind him. Murtagh turned, and his arm slipped from Eragon's grasp. Thorn shook himself and then folded his wings, waiting in the snow. His mind touched Murtagh's with strength, compassion, and warmth, but also between them there now existed a wall of anger. Murtagh was to blame for that too.

Even so, Murtagh closed the distance between them, and tears flooded his eyes. When Murtagh was close, Thorn stood on all four legs, and his lips curled in a snarl. Then he stretched out his neck and unleashed a ferocious roar. Murtagh dropped to his knees and covered his head. Thorn roared repeatedly in shorter bursts, stomping his paws on the ground as he approached Murtagh.

Wave after wave of fury rolled from Thorn to Murtagh, but beyond the anger was a familiar ache of insecurity. Thorn stood over him now and leered at him with one eye.

Murtagh arched his shoulders and kept his head down, folding his arms in front of him in a vain effort to stave off the cold. He made a mess of everything. Haphazardly he tucked his thoughts and feelings away so his grief would not reach beyond his own head. Thorn did not need more sorrow on account of him.

_I'm sorry,_  he whispered to Thorn, and with it he tried to express why, tried to show that he wanted Thorn to be safe.

Yet as his thoughts and feelings flowed to Thorn, the dragon stopped him with an abrupt mental wall and roared again.  _I have always understood your hesitation, but this is too much,_ growled Thorn, his claws dug deep into the snow. He snorted a cloud of smoke over Murtagh's head.  _You consistently go where I cannot follow. I will not tolerate this anymore!_

Murtagh said nothing and kept his thoughts to himself, and he wept. Of course he had known Thorn would be angry, but the agony he felt from his dragon now was more than he could bear. It was worse than a sword that cut straight through him, worse than a dragon's claws digging into his stomach, worse than all of his torture at Galbatorix's hands.

Again Thorn roared, and then he stepped over Murtagh, setting a leg at his back and building a wall between him and the rest of the world.  _You are my little human_ , said Thorn in a fierce voice,  _and do not forget._   _We are equals, you and I. As you desire to protect me, so do I desire to protect you._

_I'm sorry,_  was all Murtagh could say. It would never be enough. Nothing would be. Pathetic. He curled over himself into a tight ball and wept quietly, the tears running down his face like droplets of ice.

Thorn leaned down and nudged Murtagh's head up with his snout, and then his defensive walls came down and he invited Murtagh back in. Murtagh wrapped his arms as best he could around Thorn's head and buried his face against cool scarlet scales. Thorn deserved better than him, and certainly Murtagh did not deserve Thorn at all, but what else could he do? Thorn was the only one who knew him intimately and yet did not leave—he was all he had.

Murtagh tried to keep his sorrow in check, he really did, but he failed miserably at that, too. Pathetic. He shielded his memories from Thorn, and those of the spirits as well, but he could not help the outpouring of emotions he dumped on his partner. Anger fizzled out and was replaced by understanding, and Thorn met his anguish with limitless compassion. Every bit of them mingled together until Murtagh had trouble finding himself again. He wept several weeks' worth of tears until there was nothing left in him.

_I missed you,_  Murtagh said, as if Thorn could not already tell.

_And I, you,_  Thorn replied.

Night fell over them, and neither moved until Eragon pulled at Murtagh's arm while saying something about losing blood and having a fever. Murtagh was too exhausted to really hear him, but he allowed himself to be moved. As they separated, Thorn prodded Murtagh with his snout, and then he snorted in Murtagh's hair. Murtagh laughed and nearly started crying again.

"Let's go back," Eragon suggested, glancing between the dragons. All the while, he maintained his grip on Murtagh.

Everything after that was a blur. Thorn and Saphira carried them to the castle, and a host of people met them and attended to them. Murtagh slurred a few things—he had no idea what—to a few people—he had no idea who—and then was hauled away and thrown into bed. Thorn's presence stayed with him the entire time. Cautious of his nightmares, of the horrific dreams he always dreamt, Murtagh put up the few walls that he could muster, and then he fell asleep.


	37. A Father's Legacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading! I appreciate you giving this story your time. And I do really love hearing from all of you, so thanks to those of you who take the time to engage and leave comments~ It's an honor and a pleasure. Thank you!

Murtagh's heart was racing when he woke up, and he was positively giddy. He frowned at the dark ceiling, for he had  _never_  woken up  _giddy_  before. A smile spread across his face, and he breathed deep and sank into the mattress. A warm stirring crossed the intimate connection from Thorn into Murtagh, and wherever he was, Thorn was in high spirits.

It was dark, so Murtagh lit the space with a tiny light that flitted around his head. It was a typical spare bedroom in Ilirea's castle, and his things were set on a table near the bed. The light glinted off Zar'roc's blade that was propped against the wall.

Despite the wave of tremors that struck when he crawled out from under the blanket, Murtagh stood, shaking all the way, and dressed in his clothing that had been cleaned and fixed. Along with his effects was a thick, wool cloak that he put on immediately, tugging it tight at the edges so it covered every part of him. Exhaustion or not, he used magic to warm himself. He slipped into his boots and stepped outside.

It was dark and quiet in the hall, vacant save a few knights that guarded the area. No one questioned where he was going or offered to take him anywhere, which was well enough since he knew exactly where to go. He had grown up here, after all. He now had free rein in his childhood home that had for most of his life been a prison.

Entering a tower and climbing its winding staircase, he stepped out onto a high wall overlooking much of the castle and its enormous courtyard. A fresh layer of snow crunched under his feet as he strolled across it, and he pulled up his hood for warmth and exhaled on his shaky hands. Then he stopped in the middle and turned all around.

Below, Ilirea was lit with countless warm, blinking lights. Roofs were blanketed in white, and the city glowed under the light of the moon. It was quiet, peaceful, and for that he was glad.

High above and far away rang the proud cry of a dragon. Weaving through the stars were two dark bodies, touching sides, tumbling through the air and then rising again. Thorn roared, and Saphira echoed him. Murtagh smiled, and then he laughed to himself as the two dragons whirled around each other.

Every bit of stress melted out of Murtagh—rather, out of Thorn. Finally, after a life of enslavement, of misunderstandings and hatred, Thorn was understood and accepted. He could not help but cry out and dance across the sky, for he was no longer alone.

Snow crunched behind him, drawing Murtagh's attention back to the ground. Brom stood beside him and leaned over the edge of the wall, and he too watched the dragons as they frolicked across the sky.

"They have been like this for the past several days," Brom informed him.

"Several days," choked Murtagh, and he dropped his face into his hands. "Why did no one wake me?"

"We did." Brom smoothed his beard and smiled, his eyes gleaming. "Long enough to give you water and medicine, and then you were put back to bed."

Murtagh scowled at him and then put his forehead in the snow on the ledge. It was a mistake. A violent shiver nearly took him off his feet, and he stood abruptly and wiped the snow away.

Brom continued smiling, wrinkles framing his eyes, as he gazed at the heavens. "You seem to forget that though you have the aid of a spirit, your body is still human. If you push yourself too hard, you will wear yourself out."

"Like father, like son," Murtagh muttered, rubbing the back of his head. Eragon was not here to bother him, so why not Brom? If Brom materialized a vial of medicine, he was going to be impressed. Melting the snow away out of spite, Murtagh leaned over the ledge. "You and Eragon are a lot alike."

"Oh?" Brom's eyes brightened at the statement as he watched the dragons dipping low before leaping high.

Murtagh frowned at his own words, and he turned them over several times in his mind. If a son could not defy his father's nature by distance and separation, how much less could one who grew up in his father's shadow? Exhaling slowly, he unleashed a stream of fog into the crisp night air. "It would seem true that a son inherits his father's nature and will carry on his legacy with each new generation."

Silence answered him. Then, somewhere high above, Thorn and Saphira roared in perfect harmony. It was beautiful. Murtagh pulled his hood tight for warmth.

Then Brom spoke the words Murtagh had heard all his life. "You are like your father as well."

A heavy weight pressed upon Murtagh and made it difficult to breathe, and a dull ache grew in his chest.

Without wavering, Brom said, "You are smart, clever." After a moment, he continued, "You learn quickly and are astonishingly resourceful and creative. You are strong—and ever growing stronger." Then, Brom smiled at him, and Murtagh immediately looked away. "It is for these reasons that I loved your father."

Murtagh released a puff of air but could not make a sound. His eyes stung.

"If you inherited anything from Morzan, it is your intelligence and your strength," Brom told him. "But in you there is also compassion and unbreakable resolve. I can assure you that you, young though you are, have already surpassed your father."

A gentle quiet passed over them. Murtagh's breath hitched in his throat.

Only Tornac had ever dared to speak such things to him, long ago, and Murtagh had never heard it before or since. Everywhere he went, Murtagh met only distrust or outright hate. He was his father's son and nothing more. Even Galbatorix had believed as much and went to great lengths to enlist him, and Eragon had doubted his loyalty as soon as he learned the truth. Murtagh did not realize how much he needed someone else—anyone else—to tell him otherwise.

Yet he hastily dismissed the idea. He took the hope he felt and snuffed it out before it could grow. It was a lie, and he would not accept it.

Murtagh had submitted to Galbatorix and committed horrific atrocities while in his service. He had killed countless people, tortured Nasuada, and harmed Eragon. One of his greatest offenses was being present for Thorn to hatch and assigning the dragon a cruel fate. If Thorn had been given the opportunity to hatch in a different time, to someone else less flawed, the dragon's life would have been better.

Without knowing what else to say, Murtagh responded, "I am like my father in many ways."

Brom inhaled deep, his shoulders rising, and then he exhaled as he pulled a pipe out from beneath his cloak. Stuffing it and lighting it with whatever he had on his person, he puffed and sent colorful rings of smoke into the air. His wise and knowing gaze lingered on the city below. "Repentance, like most things, is good in moderation. One needs to know when it is wise to release the past."

"If only I could," Murtagh snapped, and instantly he chided himself for it. Shaking his head, he pressed his face into his hand. Even if he wanted to, the world never would. He was as broken as everyone believed. "If you read my memories, you would understand."

"I do not need to," said Brom without hesitation. He faced Murtagh and stood tall, his expression kind. "I have seen the man you are, and I need no other convincing." Brom smiled again with such warmth that Murtagh wanted to believe everything he said. "It is time to stop punishing yourself, for the world has done it enough already."

"You, least of all, should say these things to me. I am the son of your enemy, the son of the man who betrayed the Riders and wrought destruction on Alagaësia." Murtagh's body was numb, and no matter how much he commanded it to do so, he could not turn away. He simply stared at Brom and shivered.

Brom continued to smile under his thick beard. "What a contradiction you are." Then he laughed and smoked his pipe. Exhaling, he asked, "Tell me plainly what you think. Are you your father or are you not?"

Murtagh shuddered and made a few pathetic noises, and then he blinked down at the snow. Honestly, he no longer knew what he believed about himself. There was no escaping his past, and he had to accept it and make do with it without placing blame. It was his, and he would own it.

But accepting the past was a difficult thing. He  _had_  served Galbatorix, he  _had_ slaughtered innocent people, he  _had_  tortured Nasuada, he  _had_  harmed Eragon, he  _had_  killed Oromis and Glaedr… The list of transgressions was irrefutable. No amount of grumbling about his lack of choice would undo the harm he had done. As Nasuada had once said to him, he could not be forgiven, only understood.

He could never be forgiven—like his father.

It was painful for him, but he would carry that burden as best he could for the rest of his life.

"I am like my father, but I want to be better," he answered.

Brom reached out and clasped his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. His smile disappeared, but the warmth in his eyes did not. "That is wisdom," Brom told him. He held him for a long moment, and Murtagh frowned at the foreign gesture, and then the elder Rider stepped back and sighed. "It is late, and we should rest." He tapped the pipe against his palm and retraced his footsteps towards the door.

Murtagh frowned at the city below. Perhaps redemption was not even an option for him now. Perhaps Morzan and even Galbatorix became who they were because there was no hope for them. After going past a certain point, they could never return. Had  _he_  already crossed that line? Everyone else in Alagaësia seemed to believe so.

Yet he clung to a single thought. There was one clear distinction between him and his father, between him and Galbatorix. A strange sense of peace settled over him even as tears stung his eyes. Morzan and Galbatorix were haughty, and they thought the entire world should submit to their will. They truly believed that Alagaësia would cease to function without their rule. But Murtagh did not think that way.

No, Murtagh did not matter, and the world would not notice at all if he was gone. He did not need to be erased to be forgotten.

"Murtagh," said Brom. He had stopped at the door, and when he had Murtagh's attention, he tipped his head in suggestion.

It was instinctual. Murtagh glanced behind him, expecting someone else to be there that Brom summoned. Yet there was no one else, and Brom was still waiting. Wiping his eyes before any tears could fall, he dragged his feet through the snow and joined him.

Brom patted his back and ushered him inside. "Let us get some medicine in you, shall we?"

Murtagh laughed, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand. "You two…" Like father, like son.

Brom kept his hand on Murtagh's back, warm and strong, and guided him through the castle and back to his room. A fireless lamp shone on the table. Once inside, Brom fetched a vial of medicine and had Murtagh drink it. Murtagh unraveled his cloak and removed any unnecessary articles of clothing. Before he had the opportunity to climb back into bed, warm and snug, Brom flapped a hand at him.

"Trousers," he demanded.

Murtagh frowned but complied, undressing down to his undergarments and shivering all the while. As he handed the rest to Brom, he asked, "Why?"

"Because I do not think you will run around without them." Brom folded the garments, tucked them under his arm, turned out the light, and left the room.

That was a new one. Murtagh rubbed the back of his aching head, and then he buried himself under the blanket and fell immediately to sleep.

\-----

Two more days passed before Brom returned his clothing and allowed Murtagh to leave his room. Murtagh slept most of the time and only realized two days had passed when Thorn told him so, but he feigned irritation at Brom anyway simply on principle.

After getting cleaned up, having a decent meal, and preparing everything he would need, Murtagh snuck out of the castle and met with Thorn outside the city. Unfortunately, Saphira was there, too.

_You should tell Eragon you are leaving,_  she growled, and she sat and stared hard at them while Murtagh fastened a makeshift saddle onto Thorn.

"No one asked you," Murtagh said, tying a rope into place after ensuring it would not cut into Thorn's leg.

Saphira snorted fire and then plopped into the snow. She folded one paw over the other, stretching out her claws. It was probably supposed to be intimidating, but Murtagh ignored her.

_You should tell him,_  said Thorn, and he prodded Murtagh with his snout. A growl had hardly escaped Murtagh's throat before a shout arose from behind him.

"Yes, you should," declared Eragon while heading in their direction.

Murtagh's head snapped around, and he cast a nasty glare upon Saphira.  _You told him._  His mental voice dropped to a dangerous low.

_I did no such thing._  Saphira folded her wings and dug into the snow with one claw. It was the first time Murtagh noticed she still wore a saddle—though this one intended for one person rather than two.

A wave of shame rolled over Murtagh that was not his, and then he turned on Thorn. "Thorn!"

Thorn's tail swished in the snow. Despite his initial wave of guilt, the dragon honestly said,  _I have no regrets._

"There you go again," Eragon grumbled as he reached Murtagh, and he scowled and set his hands on his sides. "When will you accept the fact that if you leave, I will follow you?"

Murtagh ignored him and secured the ropes around Thorn. Meanwhile, he shot Thorn a look. Thorn's head sank a little, but Saphira hummed, her tail wagging behind her.

"Murtagh!" snapped Eragon, and Murtagh paused and turned at an angle to meet his gaze. Shadows loomed in Eragon's eyes.

"If you are angry, you should go back," Murtagh said without much thought. His eyes fell to the snow just the same.

"I'm not angry." Yet all of Eragon's body language suggested otherwise. He crossed his arms over his chest and his brow wrinkled in a frown. "I'm frustrated that you think you need to keep doing this. I know why. You're  _wrong_ , but I understand."

"I'm sorry I was going to leave you behind when going to Mount Arngor." Murtagh meant it. Keeping Eragon and Saphira apart for any longer would have been a terrible thing on his part. He understood that now. However, this was different, and Murtagh firmly believed it when he said, "I'm going after the other spirits now, though. You should stay where it's safe."

"I'm going with you." Eragon started towards Saphira.

"No, you're not." Murtagh followed him with his eyes. He stood tall and folded his arms over his chest.

"Yes, I am."

"Eragon!"

"Why?" Eragon spun on his heels and straightened, mirroring Murtagh by folding his arms across his chest. Both stood with shoulders squared. Murtagh was taller, and he stuck up his nose. "Why don't you want me to go with you?"

Murtagh had several reasons. The spirits had been hunting Eragon. They wanted him enough to revive Brom and Selena to use against him. They targeted him, took control of him, and nearly had him.  _Morzan_ nearly had him. Even the thought of it made Murtagh's stomach churn, and he gritted his teeth. Not to mention that, beyond the barrier, the spirits would sap Eragon and Saphira's power as they had done to the elves and Fírnen, and Murtagh barely trusted himself enough to keep  _Thorn_  safe.

And Thorn knew all of this, and that was what made his little betrayal that much worse.

Of course, Murtagh would tell Eragon none of that. Instead, he said, "You're annoying."

"You're a liar," snapped Eragon, standing with his feet apart as if ready for a fight.

"See?" Murtagh jutted a finger at him. " _That_  is annoying."

Eragon shook his head, but before he could say more, Brom and Selena trudged through the snow towards them. Brom carried a large bundle of dark leather in his hands, but it was wrapped tightly and appeared nothing more than a lump. Selena set her hands on her sides and pinched her eyebrows together, pressing her lips tight. It was meant for Murtagh, and he abruptly turned away.

_Serves you right,_  said Eragon to him, privately.

Brom brought the leather bundle to Murtagh and unraveled it, revealing a fine and high-quality saddle. "It would have been a pity if you left before I could give this to you."

The leather was so dark that it was just shy of being black, and the edges were bound by silver and crimson threading. Even Galbatorix had never offered him something so ornate or grand. Murtagh accepted it with shaky hands.

"Thank you." Murtagh stared at the gift, and then he sighed and glanced between Eragon's parents. "Please tell your son to stay here where it is safe."

Eragon started to shake his head—and Selena did too. Her hands remained firmly planted on her hips. She said, "I was under the impression he was safest with you." Heat climbed up Murtagh's cheeks, and Eragon gawked at her, but Selena moved past them both and smiled at Thorn. "To think you were that adorable little boy crying on my shoulder."

Now Thorn slumped forward, hanging his head in shame. He snorted a tiny blast of fire into the snow.  _Regrettably, it is difficult to be human._

"Please look after them," said Selena, and she spoke to both dragons, and both hummed in response. After looking Thorn over, she turned back around and scowled at Murtagh. "Did you remember your medicine?"

Murtagh dropped the saddle and threw up his hands. Both Eragon and Brom smiled, but Selena cocked her head. "All of you," he grumbled, and then he snatched up the saddle and went to put it on Thorn. He muttered as he moved supplies into the bags attached to it.

Brom went to Eragon and wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. "Stay safe and return to us. We will be here waiting for you."

"I know." Eragon closed his eyes, clasping him tightly. "And I will."

Short and brief, Brom stepped back.

Selena stood before Eragon next, and she straightened his hair—and seemed not to notice she was doing it—and adjusted his cloak around his neck. Eragon was trying not to smile, and his cheeks turned pink. Then she patted his arms. "You will absolutely stay safe and stay out of trouble." Her hand held his face, and she met his eyes. "You will eat well and sleep well, understood?" When he nodded, she scowled. "And you  _will_  eat all of your vegetables."

Murtagh bit his tongue. He was trying really, really hard not to laugh, and finally he had to hide his face against the saddle to drown out a chuckle. Eragon's face turned redder and redder.

Selena smiled. "It has been a long many years, but I always wanted to be able to say that." Then she wrapped her arms around him, and he her, and they held each other for a long while. Kissing his forehead, she stepped back. "My love, come back to me when you finish your task. I will always wait for you."

Rubbing his arm and squirming, Eragon whispered, "I love you, Mother."

This earned him another hug and another kiss, and Selena clasped his face in both of her hands. "I love you, my child."

Finished with his project, Murtagh returned to the ground. He scowled at Eragon as his sibling went to Saphira, and then he offered Brom a nod. Before he could acknowledge Selena, she stepped abruptly in front of him, her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. Murtagh took a single step back—and she followed.

"Shame on you for trying to leave without saying goodbye," she said. When Murtagh sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, her entire countenance changed. Her face and eyes softened, and she dropped her arms. Then she placed one hand on his arm. "Do keep an eye on that fever, and take care of yourself. And if you have need of anything, we are always here."

Murtagh gave only a tiny nod. Then she raised her hand—probably by instinct only—and brushed his hair out of his eyes. Selena stared at him then, searching deep in his eyes, and her fingers settled on his cheek. Her touch was soft and warm, both familiar and unfamiliar. He should step back or move. He did nothing.

"Murtagh…" Her voice was faint but gentle, full of affection, and her eyes shone. She smiled so slight.

Lost in herself, lost wherever she was in her memories, she smoothed back his hair. Then she kissed his forehead, lingering for only a second. Snapping back into herself, Selena stumbled backwards, eyes wide open. Her mouth gaped until she slapped both hands over it. Her neck, her face, and her ears turned bright red.

Murtagh was not much better. Heat shot up his neck all the way to the top of his head. He shivered, but not from cold, and his heart was thumping so fast he was getting lightheaded. Several times he tried to speak and only made a few pathetic noises with his useless tongue and unhinged jaw.

Off to the side, Eragon and Brom stared with equally bulging eyes.

"I am  _so_  sorry," Selena said into her hand. She reached once for Murtagh and abruptly yanked her hand back to her chest before initiating contact. "I am so sorry. I do not—I did not—I am sorry!" Words poured off her tongue in breathless spurts. She turned a half circle and looked to Brom for support—he was still frozen—and then she flapped her hand at Murtagh, her face contorting into a strange sort of frown. "I am so sorry."

Then she approached Murtagh again and vainly tried to  _wipe the kiss_  off his forehead. Immediately after, she hit him on the arm. "It is because you are so close to Eragon's age—I got confused. I am sorry." Turning two circles, she stormed away from him and waved her hands in the air as she went. "I am sorry. Be safe. Look after each other." She faced them one last time and then immediately turned away. "Goodbye."

And then she was gone. Murtagh had to remind himself to breathe.

Brom finally crossed his arms, his eyebrows lifting. Eloquently, he said, "Hm." Then he followed after her.

Both Selena and Brom reached the city gate before Murtagh could move. He managed to turn. Eragon had an arm on Saphira and was resting his forehead upon it, concealing his face, and his shoulders shook. Then their eyes met.

Despite biting his lip, an enormous grin was plastered on Eragon's face. "Seems you may not be as forgettable as you thought." With that, he climbed into Saphira's saddle and buckled his legs in place.

Murtagh blinked back at the city and tried to wipe the heat out of his cheeks, and then he climbed into Thorn's saddle and fastened himself into his seat.

_Leave them behind,_  he commanded Thorn, but he made sure Eragon and Saphira could hear. Thorn snorted and then leapt off the ground.

_I think we are racing,_  Saphira chimed, and she burst into the air.

All the while, Eragon laughed.


	38. Flowers from Snowflakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and commenting, all~ I appreciate you guys so much!
> 
> Regarding the last chapter, it was actually one of the first that I came up with for this story. I read a comment by Paolini that said Brom would have raised Murtagh as his own if circumstances had been different, but it wouldn't have been easy for him. It is another example of how hatred towards and fear of Morzan have haunted Murtagh's life. He is judged severely FIRST and accepted only after somehow proving himself worthy. People are content believing they don't have to prove anything to anyone, but in Murtagh's case, he does and has since the day he was born. The pressure of that weight is unfathomable, and the fact that Murtagh turned out to be good at all attests to his respectable character.
> 
> Most of the dialogue about Murtagh after the Cycle is that he will "want to redeem himself," as if everything that has happened his entire life continues to be his fault. Deep in my heart, I wish Murtagh had not been painted as such a failure.

 

Ceunon was their first destination. Murtagh and Eragon entered the city, leaving Thorn and Saphira outside bickering about who won the race. In fact, their race had only lasted for a few miles and there was no exact place they marked as the finish, but it was a matter of significant importance to them. Apparently. Dragons were vain.

Murtagh searched the natural condition of the town first. The townsfolk were at ease, going about their daily business despite the piles of snow on the ground. People were going in and out of shops, sweeping snow off their streets and off their doorsteps, and sharing the latest gossip. Most people were buried under ridiculously fluffy cloaks made of several types of thick skins.

Then he dipped into the world of spirits and noted the condition of the threads binding Ceunon together. The strings shone bright and energy rippled across them in vibrant colors. Though Murtagh was not entirely familiar with how they  _should_  look, nothing screamed of danger.

"Is anything wrong here?" Eragon asked, scanning the city.

"No." Murtagh scratched his head.

"Don't sound disappointed," Eragon said. "Maybe the spirit won't come back."

"But I know that it will."

Eragon crossed his arms, tapping his boot in the snow. "How do you know that?"

"A tree told me," said Murtagh, and he walked away from him. There was a slight delay before Eragon followed.

Murtagh went around the entire city, prodding at threads, listening to the people as he passed, and determined there was absolutely nothing wrong. He rubbed his brow and sighed. Perhaps the spirit had not restored yet after his attack, or perhaps it moved on to a different location. Perhaps Morzan had already taken it.

Behind him, Eragon was chatting amiably with a few townsfolk, and a little girl was shrieking down the street and calling for someone's attention. Murtagh spun in a small circle. There was no point in staying.

"Mister!" shouted the child, and Eragon and several people turned. "Mister!"

Murtagh stared at the threads stretching across the cloudy gray skies. Some blinked white, and then snow flurries began to fall. At least they would never run out of water.

"Mister!" the girl said, very close, and a tiny hand tugged on the back of Murtagh's shirt.

With a start, he turned. The little girl blinked up at him with bright eyes. Her round face was pale except for her rosy cheeks, and she flashed a smile at him that lacked several teeth. She tugged down on his sleeve, and so Murtagh crouched to her height. Then, in a swift and grand gesture, she whirled her other hand from around her back and presented a single yellow flower. It was slightly crumpled and was missing two petals.

"What's this?" Murtagh asked.

"It's a flower!" she declared, and she laughed at him. "When all the snow fell, Mama and I kept it alive. It's the last one." Then she tucked it under his nose. A sweet aroma tickled his senses. "It's for you."

"For me? Why?" Murtagh tipped his head.

"Mama said you kept me safe." The girl retracted the flower and squirmed in her boots, and then she carefully tucked Murtagh's hair and the flower behind his ear. She tapped it once with her fingertip and then wriggled again, swaying from side to side. "Thank you!" With a giggle, she pecked his cheek with a kiss and then ran away.

Murtagh blinked at the prints in the snow where she had stood, and then he raised his eyes. The girl scampered behind a woman who remained at a slight distance. She was familiar, but it took a moment to place her. Murtagh had dragged her and her children out of their home when the city was attacked. The little girl was the one who had fallen and was nearly devoured before he learned to undo the spirit's power. The mother was smiling, her hands folded loosely over the front of her billowing cloak, and then she tipped her head at him.

Several people gathered behind her or watched from a distance. They stopped what they were doing, giving Murtagh their full attention. He stood. Then, a wave of heads dipped towards him, and Murtagh shivered. No disdain, no distrust, only warm smiles and genuine gratitude.

"Hey!" Armor clamored down the street, and a few people dispersed. Two knights scurried towards them.

Any pleasant feelings Murtagh might have felt were immediately snuffed out. He spun on his heels and made for the city gate until Eragon caught and held him at the chest. Pressing against Eragon's hand, he grumbled, "Let go."

"You're not a criminal anymore," Eragon reminded him.

"They might not know that," he snapped back, and then the knights stopped right behind him. Murtagh straightened and stared at the gate. If need be, he could reach it without causing too much trouble.

"You two are…" began one of the knights, and his voice trembled.

"We came from the capital," Eragon said. He kept his grip on Murtagh. "Have there been any strange occurrences here as of late?"

"Since the last time you were here?" Their armor rattled as they moved. "Aside from the weather, nothing. Thanks to your efforts, Ceunon has been well."

"Good. If anything abnormal should happen, send someone to report to Ilirea at once." Eragon finally let Murtagh go.

"Understood."

Then one of the knights cleared his throat, and Murtagh half turned towards them. Both were staring at him. One of the men raised his hand to the sword at his side, and Murtagh's muscles tightened. Yet the hand kept lifting until it settled on the man's breastplate, and he tapped over his heart with a closed first. The second knight did the same, and they, too, lowered their heads. Without another word, both departed.

Eragon smiled. "I told you."

Murtagh straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. "No one likes a know-it-all, Eragon."

Chuckling, Eragon headed down the street. "I'm going to get something to eat. I'll be back."

Snow fluttered down on Ceunon and covered the buildings and ground anew in white dust, and it gave the world the appearance of having fallen asleep. All of the grass and trees were dead, and the flowers, too. Murtagh touched the stem behind his ear. If things did not change soon, it would be a sad world for little ones like that girl to grow up in.

As he waited for Eragon, Murtagh leaned against the side of a building and watched the people. Despite the hardships, they lived. He could learn from them. Then the little girl ran by again, and she rolled through the snow with her sibling, and they laughed and laughed. Scampering behind a building, their laughter echoed through the streets.

Perhaps even this broken world would not stop them.

Murtagh smiled. Crouching, he scooped up a handful of powdery snow, shifting it in his palm. Even without direct sunlight, the snowflakes sparkled. He tipped his hand and allowed the flakes to fall across his fingertips. Some melted, but many more did not. Resilient, like the children—like this world.

He did not touch the threads within the world, for it would never do what he wanted them to do. Instead, Murtagh reached within his own reserves of power and further beyond into the empty void of the spirits, touching both worlds at once and somewhere in between. Then he whispered " _Líf_ " and blew the snow off his hand. Flakes twinkled like stars as they swirled through the air, and then they spun to the ground.

In the place where they settled, a violet light erupted like a sprouting seed. Shining white leaves curled out of the snow, and a stem with a bud reached a foot off the ground. Magnificent petals unfurled and revealed a glowing white flower that glinted as though made from hundreds of snowflakes. Murtagh blew on it, fluttering its shining petals. Its sparkling dust spread across all of Ceunon, and flowers burst out of the snow everywhere. A slight amethyst glow lingered on each for a second before the color disappeared.

People laughed and gasped, and children squealed in delight.

_See,_  Murtagh told the spirit in his mind.  _Sometimes there is value in creating something out of nothing._

Something stirred in the keeper of balance, something akin to confusion and wonder. Murtagh frowned for a second, because of all things confusion was not something an ancient spirit should feel. Immediately the spirit was still and quiet again.

Standing, Murtagh tugged his cloak tight around him as bumps spread across his skin and a shiver ran up his spine. Besides a slight chill, the magic had no ill effects on him. Murtagh grinned from ear to ear as that same little girl scampered from one house to another, screaming incoherently and then occasionally shouting about flowers. She laughed as though the world was not dying.

"They are alive," said Eragon behind him, and Murtagh jumped. His sibling securely tucked a small parcel under his arm as he scanned the city. "How did you do that?"

Life. Magic. Murtagh shrugged and said nothing. Spirits were unbelievably powerful, and the physical world was fortunate to coexist with them at all. If all spirits were hostile, if balance did not exist and there were no spirits that sought to keep it, then Alagaësia and the entirety of the world would have fallen long before civilization ever began. It was humbling.

Murtagh closed his eyes, and power ebbed out of him as he spoke another barrier into existence. Light spread out from him and covered all of Ceunon and far beyond into the heavens. As the flow of energy ceased, Murtagh exhaled a short breath. His legs shook, and Eragon caught his arm.

"I know, I know," Murtagh grumbled. "I will take medicine." Eragon laughed and pulled him towards the gate.

Several people ran past them out of the city, but it took a while for either of them to notice the crowd gathered outside. No one was shouting or yelling. Then a pillar of fire shot into the heavens, and the ground rocked under their feet. A resounding boom rattled windows and dumped snow off of roofs. Murtagh and Eragon ran at the same instant and burst through the crowd as a shower of embers poured over them. And then they stopped.

Far off in a wide open space, Thorn and Saphira rolled over each other in the snow. They would hop apart, growling, and then one would try to overtake the other. Saphira snapped at Thorn's neck, and Thorn lunged for her front leg. Saphira flipped over him, Thorn slid under her, and together they toppled into a pile before disengaging and trying again. Thorn bit her tail and she bit his, and they chased each other in a circle before Saphira whipped around and tried to chew on Thorn's nose. Thorn snorted fire at her.

Eragon scratched his cheek. "What are they doing?"

"I think," started Murtagh, "they are playing." His heart fluttered, and he smiled because Thorn was overflowing with joy.

"Playing?" Eragon frowned.

Murtagh met eyes with him. Thorn's glee rolled over him like a fierce wave, and he cocked his head to the side as he said, "You know, what one does sometimes to have fun."

This earned him quite the glare. Murtagh chuckled and went after their dragons, and Eragon eventually followed. They left behind a crowd of mesmerized people.

\-----

Galbatorix's voice echoed in his dreams. They had to be dreams.

_Submit._

Murtagh writhed, his back arching against the stone floor. Imaginary hands squeezed every muscle in his body, and his blood boiled in his veins. Choking, he clawed at his throat. White blinded him, trapping him in his own head. He was not alone there, though. Galbatorix sifted through his mind, seeking every vulnerability, uncovering every hidden thought. Weight crushed against his head from every side.

And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Galbatorix loved every moment of it. He loved the anger, the hatred, and the fear—he loved the power he had over others. It was not only something he saw. By getting into his victim's head, he could experience the depths of their despair and their hopelessness, could realize the full scope of his harm. And he reveled in the fact he had taken from Murtagh the only haven he had ever had.

Not only Murtagh, but hundreds upon thousands of humans, elves, dwarves, and even dragons throughout the years. Man, woman, child, young or old. It made no difference. Galbatorix forced submission, whatever the cost, and relished every moment of it as his victims lost themselves.

As Murtagh lost himself. He stared up off the ground, and yet he stared down at himself through Galbatorix's eyes. He was Galbatorix. With pleasure, he tortured himself with nothing but a word, until his body was twisted and contorted, bloody beyond recognition. Then, he offered healing with sweet words before starting it all over again. It was  _fun._

A hundred years of pleasure. Of torture. Of enslavement. Dead dragons and destroyed cities. Massacres. And  _it was fun._

Murtagh flew upright, eyes darting in every direction, and he slapped both hands over his mouth to withhold a strangled scream. White and red flashed across his vision, like blood splattered in snow. He fumbled for his sword but could not find it, and his heart hammered in his chest. Bile crawled up his throat. Where was his sword?

_Peace, Murtagh,_  said a strong voice that cut through the visions in his head.  _You are safe._  No, it was a lie. He was not safe, and no one else was, either. Not from him. And then the voice spoke again with such intensity that it shook his body.  _Murtagh, be still!_

Flames danced before his eyes. A burning city, burning bodies—he had caused both. And then a sheet of red fell over him and pulled him backwards, and he tumbled against something sharp, hard, but it was warm. He blinked at the sky, and stars winked back at him. His entire body quivered, and he curled in his arms and legs in a vain effort to still them.

_You are safe,_  Thorn said, and Murtagh whipped his head around to meet his gaze.

Thorn had wrapped his wing around Murtagh, pulling him against his warm belly. The dragon's head and tail were curled around him, keeping him close, steady,  _safe_. A small fire crackled in the dark and spewed embers into the air. Across the flames, Eragon slept against Saphira's side, tucked under her wing. Saphira was awake and watching them but did not lift her head.

The barrier around Ceunon glowed in the distance.

_I will not demand anything from you,_  began Thorn, and he set his head down beside Murtagh.  _But I hope you will share with me what you have been hiding all this time._

Murtagh slipped closer to Thorn's head, curling into the curve of his long neck, and brought his knees to his chest both for warmth and to stop the shaking. His hands trembled, and so he tucked them between his knees. One tainted memory after another, he tried to untangle himself from Galbatorix.

_I'm sorry,_  Murtagh said, shivering against Thorn's hard scales. He warmed the air with magic, but it did not help.  _I don't want to hurt you._

_Whatever harms you, knowing that you suffer through it alone certainly harms me more._

Burying himself within his cloak, Murtagh took a few deep breaths to still his racing heart, and then he peeked over the cloak, over Thorn's wing, and across the fire. Saphira had closed her eyes, and foggy air puffed from her nostrils at slow intervals. Eragon had not stirred at all. It was not possible, but Murtagh tried to scoot closer still to Thorn.

_The spirits were slaves of Galbatorix,_  Murtagh explained, and he stared at the gap between two of Thorn's scales.  _Their freedom now comes at a cost, and they must share their misery with me to be rid of it. It is as though I become Galbatorix—_

Thorn growled, quiet but deep, and his nostrils flared. The muscles in his legs tightened, and he began to rise, stopping only when Murtagh moved away from him. Settling back on the ground, he bared his teeth, emitting a constant, low rumble from his throat, and curled around Murtagh again.

_It is a dangerous thing,_  said his dragon, and Thorn locked his eye on Murtagh.  _Do not forget that, when given empathy, Galbatorix was so overwhelmed by his actions that he died._

_Then I do not have as much empathy as him—_

Thorn growled, louder now, and silenced Murtagh. Anger boiled deep in Murtagh's gut, but at the same time, pain ripped through his chest. Not his feelings, but Thorn's.

_You must not endure this alone._ Thorn's mental tone softened, and he touched him with his nose.  _You will lose yourself._

Murtagh already had, and he had many more spirits to set free. It was not only a matter of knowing the harm Galbatorix had done but having lived through it personally. It cut deep in too many ways. The spirit had definitely picked the wrong person for this task. Yet it was a task that was his, and he had to accomplish it.

Building up only a few walls in his mind, he concealed the fact that he would perish and disappear. That part of the agreement with the spirit would be his alone until he died. But the rest he surrendered, and he invited Thorn in and gave him access to everything else. Thorn searched his memories and groaned deep in his throat. It was brief.

_I'm sorry,_  Murtagh said, his shoulders lifting as he hung his head.  _Now we both must suffer._

_Then we suffer together._  Thorn nudged him with his snout.  _And the load will be lighter because of it._

Numbness settled over Murtagh. It was not  _right,_  but it was different. He curled against Thorn and stared at his vibrant scales. Firelight danced across their glassy surfaces, as if a tiny fire burned in each one. His eyelids were heavy, but sleep would bring more nightmares and more suffering. Curled against Thorn, he turned his head to stare at the fire, and it lulled him into a waking sleep. His eyelids dropped and his head bobbed.

Somewhere in the dark of his mind, Galbatorix spoke kind words to him. Then pain seized him again, as it always did.

Murtagh awoke with a start, panting and sweating. Thorn blinked at him, still wide awake. It was going to be a long and sleepless night for the both of them. His legs still would not stop shaking, so finally Murtagh rose and stretched them, burrowing under his cloak against the cold. Twice he circled the fire.

All the while, Eragon slept under Saphira's wing.

Murtagh stopped. Eragon's presence still weighed on his mind, for his brother was in danger so long as he was with him. Yet a tiny, selfish part of Murtagh was glad Eragon was there. It reminded him of their travels  _before_  he submitted to Galbatorix, before he had crossed the line from which there was no turning back. Before he had become irredeemable.

Then Saphira opened her eyes and cast her gaze on him.  _It is rude to stare._

"Sorry," Murtagh whispered, and he scratched the back of his head.

_Did you have need of something?_  she asked.

Thorn's head popped up before Murtagh had a chance to reply. His partner said with complete confidence,  _He wants to nestle with his kin._

"Th-Thorn!" Murtagh snapped in a hushed voice. He scowled at him.

_Nestle?_  Saphira raised her head.

_Yes. When humans are lonely or sorrowful, they nestle for the purpose of comfort and bonding._  The entire time Thorn spoke, his mental voice was steady and honest.

"Thorn!" Murtagh's voice rose. Heat rushed into his cheeks.

_Oh?_ Saphira shifted, looking Murtagh straight.  _Do you want to nestle with Eragon? I think he would enjoy it. I will ask him for you._

After sputtering a few incoherent noises, Murtagh yelled, "No! I don't want to nestle with anyone!"

Too loud, for Eragon jumped awake, eyes wide but unfocused. He flopped on the ground for a moment as he gathered his bearings, and then he blinked at Saphira and then Murtagh. Murtagh exhaled a pathetic noise and spun on his heels, storming away from their campsite. Thorn and Saphira hummed in perfect harmony, and Thorn's satisfaction tickled the back of his mind.

Murtagh stomped through the snow until he was a good distance from camp, and then he toppled backwards and disappeared under a blanket of white. It did wonders for his hot head. Blinking flakes off his eyelashes, he stared at the inky sky.

A light shot from one end of the sky to the other, its luminous tail shining a dozen different colors. Beautiful and fleeting. When a second light followed, Murtagh stood. Then streaks of light soared across the sky, all in the same direction, until the heavens flashed in a brilliant display. They had no start and had no end, appearing from one horizon and disappearing on the other.

_What are those?_  he asked the spirit.

_My kind,_  it responded.

_What are they doing?_

_Falling._  When Murtagh frowned, a dozen more questions coming to mind in response to its answer, the spirit continued,  _Malice grows ever stronger. My kind succumbs and your kind fades, and together our worlds are perishing._

Murtagh stared at the sky. Now the shining trails were not so beautiful. "Is it because of my father?"

At first the keeper of balance did not respond, and that was answer enough. Then it said,  _Much did the one who shares your blood learn from those of my kind who had fallen to malice, and now that knowledge is used to corrupt others. Many of my kind have fallen._

"How can I save them all?"

_Free those who fell first, for greatest is their sorrow, and cease the actions of the one who shares your blood,_  said the keeper in its cold and calculated way.  _Then together you and I will restore the balance between our worlds._

Murtagh nodded. Spirits continued to streak across the sky, and more than anything he wanted to stop them and call them back. He allowed his mind to shift deeper into the world of spirits, revealing heaps of threads across the horizon. Blazing lights burned far in the south, but equally erratic strands whirled in a knot in the west. A cold pit settled in his gut.

Behind him, snow crunched under heavy boots. Eragon came and stood shoulder to shoulder with him.

"We need to hurry," Murtagh said, and he returned to himself. Even then the spirits created a vast glowing cover across the sky.

"Did something happen?" Eragon met eyes with him.

Murtagh glanced up and then faced Eragon, his brow furrowed. "Can you not see that?"

"See what?" Eragon turned around and then straightened, pulling his cloak around him. His head shifted to one side. "Murtagh?"

Seeing hundreds of spirits succumb to malice was apparently a gift he received from the consciousness in his head. With a sigh, Murtagh replied, "Nothing."

Eragon leaned forward, trying to meet his gaze. "Are you all right?"

Murtagh smiled at Eragon. He could not help it. "You're awfully worried about my wellbeing lately."

"We're brothers, after all."

Brothers. Hearing it from  _his_  mouth lifted Murtagh's head and shoulders, and affection and warmth swelled in his chest. He took Eragon's shoulder in his hand, giving it a squeeze. Then, in the gentlest voice he had in him, Murtagh said, "Don't remind me."

Eragon's lips twitched into a half smirk but also gaped, and he shook his head. Murtagh clasped his brother's face for just a second, exhaling a laugh, and then he headed back towards their camp. Rustling fabric without footsteps was Murtagh's only warning, and then a snowball pelted him in the back of his head. He straightened and turned back, and now  _he_  smirked and shook his head. Eragon was going to regret that.

His brother was in the process of working another glob of snow into a ball when Murtagh twirled his finger upwards. Eight perfectly round balls of snow separated from the ground and rose into the air behind him.

Eragon took a step back, laughing. "You cheat."

"I win," Murtagh corrected him, and then he sent the balls forward with but a push from his mind.

Eragon ducked and dodged and answered with magic of his own until snowballs were flying in every direction.

In the back of their minds, both Thorn and Saphira together muttered,  _Hatchlings._

By the time they finished, Murtagh and Eragon returned to camp soaked from head to toe and acceptably exhausted. They slumped beside their respective dragons, used magic to dry themselves, and then curled up for rest. Murtagh crashed hard, and Thorn's weighty presence lingered over his mind as he fell asleep.

Nightmares did not reach him for the remainder of the night.


	39. Test of Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, commenting, and kudos-ing, friends! I appreciate you~!

Murtagh packed Thorn's saddle full of supplies. As he closed and secured the bag, he traced a finger along the silver and crimson edges. Even though he grew up in a castle his entire life, the saddle was one of the finest gifts anyone had ever given him. Perhaps it was more a gift for Thorn, but still, it brought a smile to his lips.

When he finished with his preparations, Murtagh scanned the outlying areas for disturbances in the threads of magic. As with the night before, twisting knots loomed in the west and the south. Murtagh reached for the threads hanging over the Spine, and he could touch them but barely. It was different than a dark spirit that ripped apart the world, but it was definitely not  _right._  It quickened his pulse, for Carvahall and Roran—Eragon's family—were there.

A short while later, Eragon returned from Ceunon with a quick but warm meal for them. They ate, and then Eragon finished his preparations. Little dialogue was exchanged between them. Murtagh blamed his nightmares for the exhaustion looming over him, but because Eragon dragged himself around nearly just as much, their late-night fight in the snow was probably more at fault.

It was not until they were ready to leave that Eragon faced him as Murtagh adjusted the straps by Thorn's legs.

"Where are we heading next?" he asked.

Murtagh hesitated only for a second. "Carvahall, Therinsford, and then Narda."

Eragon tipped his head and squinted. "Why?"

"Just a feeling," Murtagh said.

Narda was gone and Therinsford did not have enough people to merit an attack when larger, more populated cities still existed unprotected. As such, Carvahall was likely the only place west of them that was at risk. It was the first place Selena and Brom thought to look for Eragon, and Eragon's only other family lived there. If the spirits hunted Eragon based on what mattered most to him, Carvahall would eventually be a target. If nothing else, Murtagh could place a barrier around the village to protect it.

Eragon's lips parted, and he fidgeted with a buckle on Saphira's saddle.

"Let's go," Murtagh said while swinging onto Thorn's back.

Rather than allow Eragon to dwell on anxious thoughts, they would set out immediately. His brother had no arguments and mounted Saphira.

Together they took to the skies and veered west across the North Sea and into the Spine. It was not far to Carvahall, and on the wings of dragons, travel ate up only a small portion of their day. Gusty wind buffeted them up high, slapping at their bare faces with an icy hand, and Murtagh and Eragon alternated using magic to warm them.

As they dipped into Palancar Valley, the threads of light unraveled and became like those anywhere else: calm and still.

Thorn and Saphira's shadows stood in stark contrast to the pure white ground. Snow buried the mountains and trees, and with the sun so bright and so high, the entire world was blinding. Yet as they glided towards Carvahall, smoke curled out of the town and left a black blemish on an otherwise pristine view.

Black smoke was a bit atypical from any hearth.

The dragons alighted on the ground just beyond the town, and Murtagh and Eragon dropped into knee-deep snow. Silence overwhelmed them, as if the entire world had gone to sleep. Eragon took one slight step, his eyes wide, and then he took off running. Murtagh followed.

Carvahall was empty, devoid of life. It was quiet save Eragon's voice as he shouted and ran from house to house. Rounding a corner, he disappeared behind a building. Murtagh stopped and prodded the air with his mind. Threads binding the town together were still in place, and Carvahall still had presence. At the very least, no spirits had attacked and drained the life out of it.

Then Eragon unleashed a scream that stopped Murtagh's heart. Without hesitation, Murtagh ran.

In the center of the town was a single stone pillar, and tied to it and gagged was Roran. Dry, dead wood was heaped in a ring around him, and a fire blazed through it and lapped at his legs and burned his clothing and flesh. He bit at the leather in his mouth and roared from deep in his throat, his eyes flashing. Sweat drenched his skin, and black smoke smothered him.

Eragon screamed a string of spells, but all of his magic died on an invisible wall that surrounded Roran on all sides. He shouted the Word to no avail, and then he lashed at the barrier with his sword. Nothing worked, and so Eragon threw his blade to the ground and shouted spells and beat the barrier with his fists.

Thorn and Saphira circled the town and hit the ground as near as they could without breaking buildings, scurrying to their aid.

"Help me!" Eragon cried, and his voice trembled.

Diving straight into the spirit world, Murtagh yanked at the threads weaving through the barrier. Hundreds of threads tied in thousands of different knots fastened it in place. Unraveling it would take too much time—time Roran did not have. Flames launched by Saphira and Thorn died against the barrier and did not affect it at all, nor did any of Eragon's attacks, physical or otherwise.

Roran screamed under his gag as fire crawled up his legs.

Murtagh drew Zar'roc and sheathed it in light. He swung the blazing blade against the barrier and only snipped a single thread. It needed more power, and so he drew from his own strength and from the spirits residing with him and ignited the sword with more energy. Timing his swing, he attacked when Thorn and Saphira did, and a few more threads unraveled. Not nearly enough.

_I need your help_ , Murtagh said to anyone listening. Thorn, Saphira, and Eragon in unison lent him their strength, and the spirits within him fluttered in his mind. His stomach turned over.

Murtagh charged Zar'roc until the blade was enveloped with light that reached far into the heavens, and he swung it upon the barrier. It bounced, and his arms numbed. Another swing and he staggered. Fire reached Roran's waist. Hating himself for it, Murtagh drained the very world of its existence as the dark spirits did in order to strengthen the blow, and then he smashed on the wall with a shout.

It shattered.

Eragon jumped over the fire while yelling spells of water that doused the flames. With magic he broke the bonds holding Roran and crumbled to the ground with him in his arms. Smoke swirled around them as they fell into the still-glowing cinder. Eragon cradled Roran and spoke words of healing over him. All the while he trembled and gasped, leaning over him with his forehead to Roran's. Surely he wept.

Then at last Roran raised his arm, his shaky hand settling on Eragon's head.

"Are you all right?" Eragon asked barely above a whisper, and however Roran answered was only between them.

Roran broke out of Eragon's arms with a start, and he climbed to his feet using the stone pillar as leverage. Eyes glazed over, he stumbled around within the charred remains of wood and whipped his head in every direction. His shoulders and chest heaved. When he found Murtagh, his focus sharpened and fury burned behind his eyes. Roran kicked through the wood and sent clouds of smoke billowing into the air, and then he caught the front of Murtagh's shirt and rammed into him with his full weight.

"Where are they?" he asked through gritted teeth, and he twisted the front of Murtagh's shirt and nearly lifted him off the ground.

"W-what—" Eragon rose.

"Your father took them," Roran screamed, and he jolted Murtagh. "Your father took my family. Where are they?"

Thorn stomped across the ground and curled around Murtagh, growling and baring fangs. Roran's lethal gaze did not change, but he released him and stepped back.

"Morzan was here?" Eragon slipped between Murtagh and Roran, and he kept a shoulder toward each but faced neither of them.

"He started that fire and left." Huffing, Roran spun on his heels and headed through town. "I will bury him!"

"Ror—" began Eragon, raising a hand toward the other and then withdrawing it as Roran marched away. He turned his head for a second towards Saphira, and she in response leapt off the ground and twirled into the sky. Finally, he faced Murtagh, his expression grim.

Rage boiled in Murtagh. His father was just as much a monster as Galbatorix. Everything he did was to exert control and to manipulate. Targeting Eragon's weaknesses and family not only hurt Eragon but expressed to Murtagh that Morzan could do whatever he pleased and that it was personal. None of this surprised him at all. In fact, Murtagh was a fool for not expecting this to happen in the first place.

Meeting eyes with Eragon, he said, "I should have known better."

Before Eragon could respond, Saphira landed and folded her wings.  _No trace of them remains, not even footprints._

"Morzan has access to spirits same as I do." Murtagh squeezed his hands into fists. "Travel is easy for him now."

He kicked at the ground and then crouched. Shifting the snow with only his mind, he created a deep bowl out of it, froze the bottom, and pulled water into it. Its smooth and glassy surface reflected a flawless azure sky. Murtagh was not particularly familiar with the people of Carvahall, but his limited experiences in the town would serve him well enough. He brought forth an image of a little girl with vibrant red hair, and all around her was darkness.

Murtagh did not stop with only knowing that she was alive. He dug further into the world of spirits, into the realm of magic itself, until he could grasp at the threads connecting her image to him. Giving a solid yank, turning time and space over with but a thought in his mind, Murtagh hauled himself from one end of the thread to the other.

Suddenly he was standing in the snowy fields beyond Dras-Leona, and towering over him were the four white-capped peaks of Helgrind. In every direction, Ra'zac shuffled through the snow, some walking circles, others tumbling over each other. They were alive, but they were also very much dead in their enslavement to Morzan and the spirits. Small Lethrblaka popped out of the snowy mountain peaks as if out of solid black stone.

Murtagh tugged on the thread but hit a wall and could not move past it. Just beyond his reach fluttered several dozen threads that connected to the lives of Carvahall's people. Their trembling voices carried across the strings like echoes in a cavern.

"Tsk tsk, Murtagh," said a low voice from behind.

Murtagh's grip on the thread wavered as he spun, and he moved as if with a physical body.

The Shade in Tornac's body stood aside with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. "Did you think it would be so simple?"

The thread snapped out of Murtagh's hand, and he was thrust back to Carvahall and thrown to the ground. The image on the surface of the water shattered.

"What just happened?" Eragon asked, and Thorn and Saphira lingered behind him, their heads low.

From the edge of town, Roran charged in their direction dressed in leather gear with a hammer in his hand. The mere sight of him and his weapon brought Murtagh to his feet, and his hand lingered on the pommel of Zar'roc.

Murtagh said, "Helgrind. They were taken to Helgrind." Ignoring Roran's accusing glare, he faced Eragon and the dragons. "Some kind of barrier prevented me from reaching inside." Then he pulled back his shoulders with a sigh. "They knew I was looking in on them, so they know we are coming. This was intentional."

Roran snorted, shaking his head. Murtagh clenched his teeth and waited for a snide remark, but nothing came. The sounds and body language were enough.

"Can you take us there?" Eragon once again stepped between them.

"I can try," said Murtagh, his shoulders falling. It was not impossible, for spirits had sent people from Mount Arngor to the Hadarac Desert in a blink, but he had only ever transported himself and others across short distances. That had been exhausting enough. Nevertheless, it was necessary. "Ra'zac and Lethrblaka are swarming Helgrind. Be prepared."

Eragon nodded and drew Brisingr from its sheath, and Roran's grip on his hammer tightened.

Murtagh faced the side of a house and paused. Parts of its log walls had been ripped away until only a thin layer of shredded wood remained, and chunks of the roof had completely vanished. Other buildings were in the same state. In his desperate attempt to save Roran, Murtagh had destroyed people's homes in the same manner the dark spirits did. It was a right exchange, but other people would likely not see it as such. If possible, he would attempt to undo the damage later.

Tearing open a rift of churning darkness in the air, he reached far with his mind and leveled a path for them to travel across. A heavy weight dulled his senses and dragged down his head until Thorn's presence pushed against him and raised him up.

Thorn stared at him with a piercing gaze, and he said,  _Do not persist in these actions alone. My strength is yours._

_Thank you,_  Murtagh said, and even across their minds, his voice was nothing but a whisper.

With Thorn's strength behind him, Murtagh created a bridge from Carvahall all the way to Helgrind. Stepping back, he tipped his head towards the swirling vortex. Roran glared and did not budge, but Murtagh did not blame him. Thorn went first, trudging down the snow-covered street and disappearing into the darkness. Saphira shook herself and lifted her head high, and she followed. After the dragons went Roran and Eragon together, and Murtagh slipped in behind them.

As if falling asleep, Murtagh blacked out within the rift and then came to on the sprawling, snow-covered plains not far from Helgrind. Everyone who exited the rift before him stumbled and blinked to clear their vision, and Roran held his head. Thorn stretched his wings and shook them out. Once across, the rift imploded upon itself and disappeared, and the strain on Murtagh and Thorn vanished.

A hundred Ra'zac littered the white field between them and the towering mountain of Helgrind, and at least two dozen Lethrblaka circled the mountain's four sharp peaks. Murtagh reached his mind across the plain towards the mountain in search of the captives, but he hit a barrier that not only prevented him from advancing but threw him back into himself. Flinching, he rubbed his temple.

"That barrier is powerful," Eragon said, and he winced and grabbed at his head as well.

"He has more spirits than I do." Murtagh rolled his shoulders back, one at a time. Instead of using his own abilities, he tapped into the world of spirits once again in order to see the unseen. It was faint, but threads of human life fluttered around the mountain, high and low. "There are people at the top and also at the base of the mountain. The largest group is high up."

"Close to where the Ra'zac lair is, no doubt," grumbled Roran. To Eragon, he said, "Never thought we would be here again."

Murtagh frowned at Eragon.

His sibling shook his head with a sigh and murmured, "It's a long story."

At least for now, Murtagh did not need to know. He drew Zar'roc and stepped towards the plain that would soon become a battlefield. Eragon and Roran did not ask questions, they simply joined him, Eragon at his left—and Roran at  _his_  left. Both Thorn and Saphira took to the sky, doing a short loop over their heads so as to keep their distance and to avoid detection from the Lethrblaka.

"I will break the barrier and go after those at the base of the mountain," Murtagh said. "Permitting it is the only barrier in the way."

"It must be a trap." Nevertheless, Eragon kept walking. The statement did not hinder Roran, either.

Across the way, a few Ra'zac whipped their heads in their direction, but none approached them yet. Their ability to meander in broad daylight suggested they truly were more dead than alive. Murtagh shuddered.

As he walked, he dipped into the spirits' strength and uttered a long string of spells, placing powerful wards of protection against all types of magic, great or small, over them. He included protections against Morzan's favorite tricks, including the sealing of voices and mind. Murtagh defended against several other things, things that  _he_ would do if in his father's place, until only the craftiest of magic would get through. Only if Morzan could utter the Name of Names could he break the wards. Even then, the Name of Names might prove ineffective, for the spirits had power greater even than the ancient language.

Having protected them to the best of his ability, Murtagh sheathed Zar'roc in magic-destroying light and ran ahead of the others. The blade of his sword reached to the sky, and Murtagh swung it at the barrier preventing their approach. It hit the wall with a resounding clang and sank in but did not break it. Once more, Murtagh was forced to rip apart the world to infuse his weapon with power. Snow and dirt vanished in a mist and swirled around him. Zar'roc flashed blinding white, and the barrier shattered.

In an instant, every Ra'zac's head shot in their direction, and the Lethrblaka roared and turned in the air towards them. It would be a dangerous battle even for Eragon nonetheless Roran who was still human. The army of black creatures thundered in their direction, sometimes stumbling but never ceasing their charge.

Murtagh prodded the spirits in his head, for he needed their help in order for his plan to work. Next he extended his mind to Thorn and Saphira.  _I am going to cast a spell over Eragon and Roran that will strengthen their weapons, but when I am gone, I need your help maintaining it. As soon as you see fit to cease it, do so._

_Understood,_  Saphira responded without hesitation.

Thorn, on the other hand, roared and plummeted out of the air. As he swept over them and blasted them in a frigid gust of wind, Roran nearly hit the ground and Eragon covered his head. Snow swirled all around them. Then Thorn popped back into the sky.

_You intend to leave me_ , Thorn snarled.

_I will return as soon as I get those people out of there,_  Murtagh said.  _I will need you out here to cover our escape. I am not sure how far I can take that many people with my current strength._   _You will have to help clear the way._

Thorn growled in mind.  _If you have need of me, then bring me in at once. Do not hesitate._

_I won't,_  Murtagh said.

Then, with the help of the spirits, he enveloped Eragon and Roran's weapons in light. It was weak enough not to take so much of his strength but strong enough that it would put the living dead back into the ground on contact. With nothing but a nod to them, Murtagh created a rift across the plain and into the base of the mountain, and he jumped through with his sword at the ready.

It would be a trap. But with Thorn on the outside and three spirits on the inside, plus an entire town at stake, it was worth the risk. Everything went black within the rift, as it always did, and then Murtagh crashed into a wall. He toppled through dark air and then hit solid, jagged ground. Sulfur burned his eyes, nose, and throat with such intensity that he shed tears and immediately coughed. A fine layer of sweat built on his skin as sweltering air engulfed him.

A few faint lanterns were strung high overhead but barely chased away the darkness. The walls were black as night and devoured the glow. Murtagh rose, pressing the rough floor beneath his feet to ensure it was stable, and then he turned as muttering arose behind him. A metal cage covered in rust sat on the ground, and shadows moved inside of it. People, no doubt.

Murtagh tried to cast magic for illumination, but nothing happened. Again he tried with no result. His mind was clear. " _Garjzla_." The words were just as clear. " _Brisingr._ " No reaction. Magic itself failed him. He reached for the spirits accompanying him, but they did not respond. It was familiar, as though they were sealed far away and had gone to sleep, nothing but a thought at the back of his mind. His connection with Thorn had been severed.

"This test will be a little more challenging, my student." Tornac's voice arose from up high, and Murtagh spun on his heels. The Shade stood in a tunnel high above him, a lantern in his hand casting terrifying shadows across his face. His eyes glowed. Shifting from Tornac's voice to that of something deeper, less human, he said, "You know our tricks, so we tried another." The Shade tossed a glowing purple stone into the deep pit, and it clattered at Murtagh's feet. "We have placed these throughout all of Helgrind. See if you are able to escape without your powers."

"Is this a game to you?" Murtagh snarled, and he kicked at the glowing shard. Familiar it was, for it had been used against him in Ilirea. "You threaten the lives of hundreds of people for  _a test_?"

"The stakes are always highest in a true gamble." The Shade in Tornac's body smirked, and it was monstrous in the scant light and shifting shadows. "I do hope you will survive." Then his voice shifted again to Tornac's, and with pride dripping off his tongue, he said, "Your clever mind would be a terrible thing to waste." With deep and rumbling laughter, he turned and vanished into the tunnel.

Suddenly the ground shook. Murtagh staggered, and the metal cage creaked as it swayed from side to side. Several voices cried out from within, and an infant began to wail. Rocks tumbled from the walls and crashed down with a reverberating boom, and stone cracked and fell from far below. An orange glow shone through cracks in the floor, and then liquid fire seeped out of the ground and spread throughout the wide cavern.

Murtagh huffed and stepped back, his heart and breath stalling.

As burning sludge boiled into the cavern, the walls lit up by its fiery glow. Several gaps in the walls marred the cavern, but all were high up and well out of human reach. And on the far side of the cavern, in an iron cage, were at least twenty captives from Carvahall.

A test indeed. One manipulation after another, one crude expression of dominance after another—how very like Morzan. Curse his father to the darkest depths! Murtagh would survive simply so he could single-handedly put him back in the ground.

His pulse racing, Murtagh shivered. Then he curled his hands into fists, took a deep breath, and turned on steady feet. Time to get to work.


	40. Fiery Depths

Murtagh slammed Zar'roc into the lock on the cage and shattered it, and the door whined as it opened. Captives flooded out: many women in long cloaks or dresses, a few small children, and three men. One of the women had been with Eragon at Roran's house—Roran's wife? And in her arms was the child with vibrant red hair, the girl Eragon had played with in the snow. Eragon's family.

Curse Morzan to the deepest, darkest pits of despair.

"Help me move the cage," Murtagh said to anyone willing to listen.

He ran to the side of it and pushed it towards the nearest wall and towards the nearest tunnel. A few pairs of eyes blinked at him, several more stared, and then the three men and several women came to his aid. They pushed, and the metal squeaked only an inch across the floor.

A hulking, older man with wild black hair took a step back and flicked his fingers inward. "Everyone together," he said. Everyone stepped back and braced themselves. "Three, two, one!"

As a group, they charged the cage. Rust and metal snapped away from stone, and the entire frame skidded across the ground with ease. They pushed it as close to the wall as its shape allowed, turning the wide end against it, and then Murtagh tossed Zar'roc ahead of him and climbed the bars to the top. The two younger men followed, and together they hauled women and children up while the other man lifted them into their reach. The liquid fire crept across the floor and closed in. After everyone was up, the older man allowed himself to be hauled up by Murtagh and the other young men.

"What do we do now?" asked one of the men, combing a hand through his dirty blond hair.

The stone walls were not smooth by any means, but they lacked decent footholds. It would be a challenge to climb for even one person nonetheless twenty. Murtagh scratched the back of his head and panted for air. Beneath them, the liquid fire wrapped around the cage's frame, and the metal creaked against its touch. Time was not with them.

"Take off your cloaks," Murtagh said, and he removed his own. "Make a rope. Make it secure."

He waved a hand for them to hurry, and no one asked questions. Everyone who wore a cloak removed it and went to work fastening them together. The older man tied and tightened each knot, his biceps bulging with each pull. At least it seemed the rope would be secure.

When it was presented to Murtagh, he gritted his teeth. "Longer."

And then, without him saying a word, the people removed whatever they could, be it shirts, aprons, or even heavy wool dresses, and they created with their garments a long and sturdy chain.

Murtagh wound it over his shoulder, around his neck, and across his chest, and then he stepped to the edge of the cage. It leaned under his weight, and he grimaced. Beneath them, the metal at the base of the cage glowed brilliant white. Holding his breath, he took several steps back. With Zar'roc tight in hand, Murtagh ran to the edge of the cage and lunged as far and as high as he could. With both hands, with all of his weight, he plunged Zar'roc into the stone wall, and it shattered the stone and sank deep. He collided against the wall and nearly lost his grip on Zar'roc, and he hit so hard that the air was knocked out of him.

Reeling for only a second, just long enough to catch his breath, Murtagh found a place for one foot and then the other. He grasped at the deepest indent in the wall he could find, and then he yanked Zar'roc out of the stone in one fluid pull. Without magic, he could not dull the blade, and so he did the only other thing available to him to keep from losing it: he bit it and carried it in his mouth. Freeing both hands, he scaled the wall in little time and leapt into a tunnel that went on for a long while, and orange light shone in the distance.

Murtagh jabbed Zar'roc halfway into the floor of the tunnel, giving it a shake to ensure it would not waver, and then he tied one end of the rope to the grip. He took the remainder of the rope to the edge. "Someone strong needs to come first to hold it for everyone else," he said, and his gaze fell on the husky man with black hair. "You, old man?"

"That's Horst to you,  _boy_ ," answered the man, and he stepped to the edge of the cage. It creaked beneath him, and it was probably better to take his weight off it sooner rather than later. He held out his hand.

Murtagh tossed the rope, and it was long enough to reach them. The man called Horst gave it a tug and then wound the rope around his hand. Without fear, he lunged off the cage and caught the wall with his leather boots. Murtagh pulled on the rope to speed his ascent. When Horst rolled into the tunnel, Murtagh passed the rope to him but kept the end for himself.

"Get us up as fast as possible," Murtagh said, and then he wrapped the end of the rope around his hand and clasped it tight.

Horst spread his feet in a wide stance and held the chain steady. Murtagh slid down the wall to the cage and extended his free arm. The two young men passed a woman holding a child to him, and Murtagh pulled them on top of him, supporting them with his body instead of just his arm, and then he climbed as Horst pulled.

One by one, they brought the women and children to safety until only the two young men remained. Murtagh settled against the side of the tunnel and gasped for air. His arms ached and were heavy like iron.

Horst threw the rope to the dark haired man, calling out, "Baldor!"

The young man, Baldor, did as Murtagh and Horst had done and wrapped the rope around his wrist and lunged for the wall. Yet as he jumped, the cage screeched, and one half of it caved inward. The broad top slid forward and hit the wall near the floor just inches from the liquid fire, and the man with blond hair skidded downward and scrambled to keep from falling off. The rope was too far and too short.

"Albriech!" screamed Horst, Baldor, and a woman with an infant girl in unison. Several of the townspeople gasped and murmured.

The other half of the cage groaned, sinking into the fiery hot sludge.

"Pull him up!" Murtagh shouted, on his feet. He grabbed the rope along with Horst and pulled Baldor up. Then Murtagh ripped Zar'roc out of the ground, pulled off the rope, and ran to the ledge.

The other half of the cage leaned the opposite way, and the bars bent inward.

Murtagh flinched and shoved the rope into the hands of Horst and Baldor. "Hold that! Don't let go!" Then, he wrapped the other end in one hand and held Zar'roc in the other. Using the rope, he slid down the wall as far as he safely could, and then he grappled the wall with his free hand, tucked Zar'roc between his teeth, and let go of the rope.

One tiny step after another, he lowered himself toward the cage. It leaned away, and liquid fire boiled over onto its surface and forced Albriech backwards. Several bars snapped at once, and the cage dropped.

"Jump!" Murtagh screamed between gritted teeth, and he let go of the wall and grabbed Zar'roc, stabbing it into stone. Too far.

Albriech ran, and the cage dipped back towards the wall under his weight. He jumped and hit Murtagh hard, and they scrambled to catch each other. Zar'roc was too thin and too sharp, and the blade cut through stone and sank towards the liquid fire. Murtagh dug the toes of his boots into the wall in an attempt to find footing to stop their descent, yet Zar'roc kept sinking, cutting through rock like butter.

Beneath them, the cage crashed into the liquid fire with a splash, and the waves that it created rippled at Murtagh's feet. He clawed at the wall while trying to keep his grip on Albriech. And then his boot sizzled as it hit the burning sludge. Then they stopped sliding.

"Go," Murtagh said as he panted. "And be careful."

Albriech gave a slight nod and then felt the wall. Once he found a place to grip, he pulled himself away from Murtagh and began to climb, tiny indent after tiny indent, little step after little step, until he reached the rope. Once he caught hold of it, Horst and Baldor pulled him up. The rope came back down.

Steadying his grip as best he could, Murtagh yanked Zar'roc out of the wall. His foot slipped and touched the boiling sludge again until the stench of burning leather hit his nose, and then he dragged himself up. Tucking his sword between his teeth and with a half burnt boot, Murtagh climbed the wall again. He caught the rope around his hand and allowed himself to be hauled up by Horst and Baldor.

"You all right, lad?" Horst asked, clapping his shoulder.

Twenty people later, Murtagh's arms were numb. Yet the rest of him was fine. Standing and nodding, he turned his leg to inspect the bottom of his boot. Most of the thick leather sole was gone, and smoke swirled off it. He stomped on the ground to snuff out the heat.

"We should keep moving," Baldor said, and he patted Albriech's back. A woman holding an infant girl was clasping Albriech's wrist.

With Zar'roc in hand, Murtagh stepped ahead of the group. If Ra'zac or Lethrblaka attacked in such a narrow space, he could potentially fend them off with nothing but the blade. Aside from their footsteps, the occasional whimper of a child, and heavy breathing, the tunnel was quiet. Carvahall's people were fearless. Yet as they neared the light on the other end, the roar of water echoed through the tunnel.

Not water. Murtagh led the group into another vast cavern, and liquid fire exploded from a hole in the floor and crashed against stone walls and ceiling, chipping away at the black rock piece by piece. Small boulders tumbled off the walls and sank into the glowing mire. The sludge burst upwards, struck stone, and then sank back into the hole again and again. Another tunnel was high over their heads.

"We have to climb this entire mountain," murmured Roran's wife as she bounced the little girl on her hip. At her words, several of the women muttered to each other, shaking their heads.

"No point in grumbling," Baldor said, and he went to the wall after receiving their cloth chain from Horst. "I will go first this time."

"Wait." Murtagh wiped the sweat off his brow and stepped over to the massive hole on the far side of the cavern.

When an eruption of liquid fire sprayed into the air, he leaned back, but it did not stop him. He gazed over the edge. Far below, far deeper than the last cavern and surely far deeper than the land itself was a lake of liquid fire, churning like a stormy sea. The ledge on which he stood went down quite a ways before giving way to wide open space. Flecks of burning mire splashed against the stone walls of the ledge but did not drench it.

"What are you planning?" Horst asked, and he folded his arms across his thick chest.

Murtagh stood and glanced over the group, and then he met eyes with Horst. "I am hoping your captors made a very serious error in judgment."

Crouching at the ledge, he tucked Zar'roc between his teeth and started to climb down. Horst and Albriech approached along with a handful of the women.

"Wait!" called out Roran's wife.

"Don't be a fool." Horst tried to catch him, but Murtagh managed to dip just out of his reach. "Boy!"

Too much was at stake, and surely there would be more  _tests_  along the way if they had to traverse an entire mountain. Murtagh was not going to risk their lives unless absolutely necessary. Not to mention that if the entire mountain was riddled with those magic-blocking stones, then Eragon and Roran were in danger, too.

And so he slid down the ledge, deeper into the mountain and closer to the pit of boiling fire. The burning mire splashed around him, missing him by only a hand's width, but the heat drained him. His muscles screamed and his fingers were slick with sweat. Liquid flames splashed across his arm and burned through his sleeve, stinging the skin underneath. Smoke curled off his clothing, but nothing caught fire. A few more droplets hit his bare neck, and he twitched to the side and gritted his teeth.

It was painful and difficult, and he had been counting on that. No one else would be foolish enough to make this trip.

Down into the hole he climbed. About halfway, he muttered through gritted teeth, " _Brisingr._ " A tiny red flame swirled in the air before being snuffed out. Further down he went and did it again, and the flame grew in size before dying.

Murtagh extended his mind and went a certain distance before hitting walls. Wherever Thorn was, the barriers still blocked their connection. Turning inward, he touched the spirits with him, and only silence answered him. It was not enough. Then, his foot slipped as he reached the bottom of the ledge. From his angle, the lake of liquid fire seemed to stretch on for as far as Helgrind did, and it was still nearly half a mile beneath him.

" _Brisingr_ ," he said, and he created a flame and held it. Yet when he allowed it to die and attempted to stir the spirits in him, nothing happened. His mind grappled with the spirit world and tried to create a rift to no avail. Close, but not close enough.

Another burst of liquid fire exploded upwards and into the hole, spraying him with fluid heat. His sleeve caught fire, and he twisted it against the rock to put it out. Searing pain spread across his calf. Fire melted his leather boot and burned away the fabric and skin underneath. Murtagh growled and steadied himself on one hand, taking Zar'roc and using the blade to pat out the flames.

The stone under his hand groaned.

After dealing with the fire, Murtagh shoved Zar'roc back in his teeth and clasped the wall with both hands. A crack spread from the bottom of the ledge and reached high over him. The stone shifted. Fate was not to be tested, and so he immediately started climbing to safety. Yet as soon as he did, as soon as his second foot found a secure place to rest, the entire bottom part of the wall came undone.

Murtagh toppled towards the churning mire along with several dozen chunks of rock bigger than his head. He caught Zar'roc by the blade and screamed magic as he fell.  _Stone. Up. Float._  Anything and everything he thought might be useful, yet he continued to drop until the boiling lake stung his skin with its fierce heat and his clothing smoked.

Then, only a few feet above the sludge, Murtagh screamed " _Flautja_!" His body froze in the air, and all of the stones splashed into the liquid fire beneath him. Shaking, gasping for air, he used his mind to pluck stones off the ceiling, drawing them down to create a platform over the lake. All the while, he dangled in the air with Zar'roc cutting bloody gashes in his hand.

_Your kind is curious,_  said the spirit of balance in his mind, stirring from its forced slumber. Its tone was chilling.  _Must you always do what is most dangerous?_

"Must you always go to sleep when I need you?" he grumbled, and the two lesser spirits fluttered in him and made his stomach turn over. Despite his circumstances, he smiled, not because he was glad but because  _they_  were. He entertained them, apparently. Good for them.

Murtagh built a stone raft beneath him and suspended it over the lake with magic, and then he dropped himself on top of it. Sprawling across the stone, he uttered a spell for cooling and simply lay there until he caught his breath. After healing his hand, he took Zar'roc, dulled it, and tied it to his belt. Then Murtagh pulled more and more stone off the walls and off the ceiling until he lined a huge portion of the lake with it.

It was impossible to reach deep through the stone before his power was snuffed out, so Murtagh could not reach the townspeople at Helgrind's peaks. Yet he was able to keep up his strength just enough to stretch a rift between him and the people above him, and then his power faltered as it had when he first entered the mountain. It was enough. He built the rift and hauled the people through it. Twenty-some screaming people toppled through the fissure and landed on the platform at his side.

"Are you out of your mind?" asked Horst when he had gathered his bearings. He grabbed the front of Murtagh's shirt and gave him a shake.

"Apparently," he said, and again the spirits fluttered.

"What now?" a woman asked, her eyes flitting from one end of the broad cavern to the other. Several other women were turning all around, mouths gaping.

"We are leaving." Murtagh created another break in space, and this one he had to get creative with. He stretched it far to the side, far beyond Helgrind and the surrounding plains, until he reached a place where the magic-dulling stones could not touch, and then he lifted it up and out of the ground. Dras-Leona was near. Facing the group, he said, "Hold onto your little ones, and brace yourselves. It may make you dizzy."

"What about the others?" asked the woman with the infant girl. "The rest of Carvahall was taken here!"

"Eragon and Roran are after them." Murtagh stepped aside and waved a hand toward the rift. When the people only eyed each other and no one moved, he said, "I will return when you are safe." Still no one moved, and he growled.

Suddenly, Helgrind shook, and the walls of the cavern around them groaned. The fiery lake on which they rested rocked back and forth. Several more bursts of mire shot up around them and exploded against the stone ceiling over their heads, raining hot liquid over them. Murtagh protected them, but everyone sheltered their heads just the same. A deep, low rumbling rose from beneath them.

"We need to go!" Murtagh shouted. He would throw them in against their will if he had to.

Yet Albriech stepped ahead and stuck his hand into the rift, and then he jumped through without looking back. A second later he returned with a smile, and he tipped his head in suggestion. That was all the confirmation they needed. Person after person jumped into the gaping hole of darkness and disappeared until only Murtagh remained. Helgrind shook again, and the entire mountain groaned from every side. Murtagh jumped through and closed the rift behind him.


	41. Whispers of Galbatorix

Eragon slashed Brisingr clean through four Ra'zac at a time, and the black creatures shattered to dust and disappeared. Whatever spell Murtagh had cast upon their weapons worked wonders against creatures of darkness. A short distance from him across the field, Roran slammed his hammer into a Ra'zac's head. The creature exploded upon impact. Overhead, Saphira and Thorn tore through the Lethrblaka and dropped their mangled bodies onto the field. Saphira flipped over in the air and then spewed flames across the plain, burying Ra'zac under a blanket of fire.

Then Thorn roared loud enough to roll snow off Helgrind's peaks. He shot forward at an alarming speed before turning back around. Darting back and forth across the sky, he crash landed on a Lethrblaka and snapped its neck, falling with it near to the ground before rising and belting out another howl.

_What happened?_  Eragon called out to the dragon, and across his connection with Saphira, she shuddered.

_Murtagh!_  wailed Thorn, and he hit one, two, and then three Lethrblaka in a row, clawing at them from every direction before snapping and tearing at their necks. Eragon's stomach dropped until Thorn added,  _My connection with him is lost!_

_It was a trap._  Eragon had assumed as much—even Murtagh had. Everyone knew, but several hundred people were in danger and left them little choice. Murtagh was smart, and so long as Thorn felt he was still alive, there was hope.  _He will find a way back to us. We must trust him._

Nevertheless, Thorn roared and decimated every enemy that dared get in his way until even the Lethrblaka swerved to avoid him. Murtagh had a frightening and loyal partner. Eragon smiled.

Between Murtagh's spell and the two dragons, they made quick work of the Ra'zac and Lethrblaka. Compared to the creatures they had faced in the past, the current ones were frail and harmless. Perhaps Eragon and company had become stronger, but perhaps the magic that revived the Ra'zac and Lethrblaka was weak. Morzan or the spirits had chosen quantity over quality.

Thorn weaved between Helgrind's peaks and roared in lament over Murtagh as Saphira settled on the ground and allowed Eragon and Roran to climb on her back.

"What happened? Why is that dragon so angry?" Roran asked as they took flight.

Eragon flinched. "Murtagh fell into a trap. His connection with Thorn was severed."

Roran squeezed the hammer in his hand until his knuckles turned white. "Then the villagers…"

"Murtagh is still alive and can still get them out of there. We should focus on rescuing the others first and be wary of traps as well." Eragon used magic to reveal the opening into the Ra'zac lair, and Saphira slid inside and folded her wings for them.

Eragon and Roran dropped to the stone floor of the tunnel, and Eragon moved forward until Roran caught his wrist.

"Eragon," he started, and he spoke through clenched teeth. "You are asking me to put a lot of faith in someone who spent a significant part of the war trying to kill us."

"If you cannot trust him, trust me." Eragon gripped his cousin's forearm and held him fast. "If anyone can lead them out, it is Murtagh."

"You have made peace with him, then?" Roran's brow wrinkled and his eyes darkened.

"I have. He has saved me now more times than I can count. I owe much to him."

Roran gripped Eragon's arm and squeezed, and then he released him and moved on down the tunnel. Eragon glanced back at Saphira. Together they followed him. As the light faded from outside, Eragon created a light with magic to lead them. Yet the deeper they went, the smaller the light became no matter what he did to increase it.

Saphira growled, and she spoke for both now to hear.  _Something is wrong. My strength is fading._

Then the light snuffed out, including the luminous glow Murtagh had bestowed upon their weapons. Eragon's connection with Saphira was abruptly severed, and he exhaled sharply and spun around. Her form was still visible against the faint light.

He could not extend his mind to her, and so he called out, "Saphira?"

Saphira snorted but said nothing back to him. He slipped through the dark and reached for her, sighing when he touched her snout. Saphira nuzzled against him and then proceeded. They had fallen into a trap, but it was manageable. They still had weapons, and they still had Saphira. Their footsteps echoed through the corridor as Thorn's roar vibrated the walls from outside.

They crept through the lair, and nothing hindered them. Bumps spread across Eragon's skin despite his heavy cloak. The darkness was heavy.

By the time they reached the area where the prisoners were kept, whimpers and murmuring carried down the hall. Two flickering lanterns hung on the wall, though their light was faint. Cage after cage was crammed full of Carvahall's people, nearly all of the people in fact, and they huddled together under their cloaks. When Eragon and Roran stepped into the light, many people jumped to their feet.

"Roran! Eragon!" someone shouted.

Gertrude ran to the side of the first cage, clasping the bars. Her eyes shot wide open. "Are you boys all right? Those monsters were everywhere!"

"Fine for now," Roran answered, and he tipped his head at Eragon towards the opposite end of the cages. "Start down there and meet in the middle."

Eragon nodded and ran to the other end of the corridor. Using Brisingr, he broke open the cages and released the people inside, and everyone crowded around him and patted his shoulders. Meanwhile, Saphira stuffed her head into the door and growled in such a pathetic manner that Eragon ached for her.

He and Roran met in the middle, and Roran's eyes shot from one end of the corridor to the other. His hammer shook in his hand. "Where are they? They aren't here."

Eragon did not need to look around. Katrina and Ismira were not among this group. He met eyes with his cousin—his brother—and gripped his arm once again. "I understand how you feel, but we should get these people out of here first. If the Ra'zac or Lethrblaka—"

"Eragon." Roran gritted his teeth and shook his head. He grabbed Eragon's shoulder and shook him. "My wife and my daughter…"

"Trust me," Eragon said. He did not intend for it to be so, but there was a hint of pleading in his own voice.

"I do, but I do not trust him." Roran released Eragon and ripped one of the lanterns off the wall. It flickered and waned but came back to life when he tore a shred of fabric off his shirt and fed the flame.

Saphira yanked back her head and vanished in the darkness on the other side of the door, and Eragon waited as everyone else passed by and followed Roran through the corridor. As the people passed, the remaining lantern on the wall fluttered and twisted and shrank. The flame twirled against the wall and shuddered in the cold. It was slight. Then the fire dissolved into a curling black mist and was snuffed out.

Eragon's stomach dropped hard and fast, and he swayed on his feet and had to catch the wall. His breath escaped him, and so the first few times he tried to speak, nothing came out. Then at last Eragon managed to whisper, "Run." It was a trap. Run! His mind screamed. He pushed off the wall and bolted down the corridor after the people of Carvahall. Now he screamed loud and clear, "Run!"

No one questioned him. Several of the people shrieked, and everyone ran. By the light of Roran's lantern, they scrambled down the hall and towards the exit, towards a place where Eragon and Saphira could access their magic. Saphira bolted ahead of them and stretched her wings as soon as she was in a wider place, jumping and taking flight. Flight. Three hundred people needed to flee the top of a mountain in an instant. Eragon's magic was strong, but carrying Sloan had been challenging enough the  _last_  time he fled Helgrind.

_Saphira!_  he called out, and no one answered him. They ran towards the light, and Saphira burst from the dark corridor and swept away from the mountain.  _Saphira, answer me!_  Silence. His heart pounded in his chest and his vision blurred.  _Saphira! Thorn!_

_Little one!_

Eragon raced ahead of the people, ahead of Roran, and ran towards the bright light.  _Both of you, lend me your strength! Please!_

Two dragons answered him with shuddering roars. Eragon could not hesitate even if it cost him dearly. Uttering a string of words in the ancient language, he hoisted the people of Carvahall off the ground just as Helgrind rocked beneath them, its walls creaking and groaning. Explosive booms shook the mountain at its base and spilled snow over their exit. Eragon ignored it and threw himself and the people through the small avalanche and out of the mountain. Two powerful presences held them all as Saphira and Thorn lent their strength.

Eragon carried them only to the ground, and then he collapsed in the snow, his head throbbing and his vision blurry. Saphira and Thorn landed on either side of him, and Roran flung the lantern and hauled him to his knees.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

A decidedly not-dragon roar shook the land and everything in it. The mountain rumbled, and every last heap of snow rolled off Helgrind's four peaks. Dark clouds unfurled across the sky with unnatural speed, bubbling and churning like boiling water. The sunlight was gone in a blink and left only aberrant darkness in its wake.

Then it rose from behind Helgrind, crawling over it as if climbing a tiny hill. A creature made of swirling darkness clung to the mountain, spreading its enormous wings that had a wider span than Helgrind's full height. Its eyes flashed like lightning as it scanned the field, craning its head towards them. When it opened its beak, a dark tongue lashed at the black stone of the mountain and dissolved everything it touched. Helgrind shuddered and began to fade.

"W-what is that?" Roran stammered, and his words were muted, breathless.

"Not good." It was all Eragon could say.

It was the largest of the dark spirits he had seen. Helgrind was small in comparison, and the mountain and the earth quivered under its weight. The beast's wings reached into the black, swirling clouds. Lightning flickered around it without effect. It was monstrous, and its tail curled three times around the entirety of Helgrind's base.

"Run," Eragon said, and he rose and shoved Roran aside. "Run and stop for nothing."

"But—"

"Run or everyone here will die!" Eragon screamed at him now, and he grabbed Roran's shoulder to shove him again. Roran's shoulder fell apart under his hand. Eragon choked.

"E-Eragon…" Roran raised his hands, and his fingers crumbled before their eyes.

Roran was not alone. Carvahall's people faded into a mist, little by little, piece by piece, until entire body parts vanished from sight. Eragon trembled, and then he shook his head. Spinning around, he cast his gaze upon the monster looming over them. It stared back at him with its piercing but empty white eyes. It shrieked, and the entire field, the snow, the earth, and everything as far as the eye could see, groaned. Eragon dropped and covered his ears, and everyone behind him did the same. Blood dripped onto his hands.

Covering his ears as they bled, Eragon got to one knee. Huffing and setting his jaw, he sharpened his mind like a piercing spear and attacked the spirit head on. He hit a wall of nothing. Suddenly, the world was empty, hopeless, and he was on the Burning Plains and everyone was dead.

_Eragon, do not succumb to it,_  Saphira said, and her presence rested over his.  _Do not allow it to overwhelm you._

_Such… hatred,_  he whispered to her. His own sorrow, his own hatred, even if only from his dreams, was returned to him tenfold by the spirit.  _W-what are these things?_

_Fight it._  Saphira growled and then roared, and Eragon returned to himself. She stood over him, a paw on each side of him.  _Together we can prevail._

Thorn stepped forward and shielded Eragon and the townspeople from the spirit's gaze. Eragon drew Brisingr and shoved the blade into the ground, forcing himself upright. Behind him, people had lost entire limbs, and some had lost themselves completely. Roran crumbled as his legs and arms vanished. Eragon braced his feet in a wide stance and steeled his mind for another attack. Saphira and Thorn gave him their full strength. With a shout, he dove into the spirit's mind and crashed again into a solid wall. They pushed, stabbed, and fought with all of their strength, and they did not even chip the barrier in its mind.

Carvahall's people cried out. Thunder rumbled from the clouds. The creature crawled over Helgrind and jumped, and the mountain collapsed under its enormous weight. At the very same moment the creature leapt, Helgrind erupted into flames from the inside out. Glowing orange liquid spewed into the air and poured down the jagged edges of the crumbling mountain. Despite everything else, Roran screamed, and it cut Eragon deep in his chest.

Thorn sprang from the ground. He met the dark spirit in the air and hit its neck with his full weight, clamping down on it with fangs bared. His claws tore at darkness, but whatever he touched only fell back together again. Yet he tried. He grappled with the monster in the air, released it for a second to spin around and gather himself, and then he lurched over it and landed on its back. It was huge, and Thorn was so small.

Saphira roared and followed his lead. Shooting into the sky, she caught the spirit's tail and yanked it backwards, and Thorn crawled over its face and scratched at its eyes. It was a familiar image, Saphira and Thorn working together against a dark and monstrous creature, except Shruikan was only a fraction of this monster's size. The spirit swirled around them, its body fluid like smoke, and snapped at them with its enormous beak. If it caught either of them, it would devour them in a gulp.

For a moment, only for a brief moment, the destruction of the people ceased, and everyone lay in the snow with battered and broken bodies. Eragon shivered at the sight, and then he jabbed into the spirit's head again with all of his strength. His vision darkened as his strength ebbed, and cold sweat rolled down his temple and cheek. Still, he persisted. Thrust after useless thrust, he beat at the barrier that guarded the spirit. Saphira and Thorn scratched and clawed at it, fled as they needed, and then attacked again.

All in vain.

The spirit roared, and Eragon hit his knees and buried his head. Saphira and Thorn fell away. Darkness closed in from all sides, yet Eragon struck again. His dulling mind lashed at the creature, distracted it, kept it from hurting the people.

_Get back._

Eragon could only raise his head. Strength ran through him and over him, and it hit the spirit so hard and fast that the creature recoiled in the air and crumpled towards the ground. Only before it crashed did it catch itself on its wings, and it spun high into the clouds before coming back.

Across the plain, beyond the people, came Murtagh. His eyes were sharp and focused, and he raised his hand to the creature as it swept down upon them. Eragon stabbed at it again, and his head and shoulders fell. Sorrow upon unexplainable sorrow heaped on him until he could not breathe.

_Stay back,_  Murtagh told him.

It was not Eragon's fight anymore. Murtagh pulled the spirit apart from the inside out with powers that Eragon could not even begin to understand. And then, as Eragon retreated, laughter rumbled through his mind and pain flashed through every muscle in his body. It was fleeting, right before he was ejected, Eragon saw him. Galbatorix laughed as bodies burned.

Eragon was flung from the spirit's mind and back into himself, and he clasped at his chest and shuddered. Murtagh stood beside him now, a hand raised in opposition to the monstrous creature. It swept over them, jagged claws extended. Saphira and Thorn in unison struck it and yanked it aside, and it unleashed a strangled shriek.

Darkness fell away from it, and it withered away into nothing but a tiny ball of white light. It touched Murtagh's palm for only a moment, and then glowing energy poured across the plain. People were put back together again. Bodies were healed. Strength was returned. When Roran sat up with all limbs intact, Eragon sputtered and reached across the gap and caught him with one arm. Roran returned the embrace. Then Roran looked beyond Eragon to Murtagh, and his grip ceased.

"You—" started Roran, and he rose.

From behind, Katrina's voice echoed across the plain. "Roran!" She ran towards them, Ismira in her arms, and a group of people ran with her. "Roran!"

Roran dropped his hammer. It took only a second for him to collect himself, and then he raced across the field to meet her. He engulfed both Katrina and Ismira in his arms, spinning them off the ground, and then he held them intimate and close. All around them, the people of Carvahall returned to their feet. People embraced and wept. Overhead, the clouds began to break and gave way to a vibrant orange sunset.

Eragon turned. Murtagh had left him and gone to Thorn. Saphira approached him instead.

_Are you well, little one?_  she asked, and she pressed her snout against him. He rose and held her fast with both hands, touching his forehead to her cool scales.  _It nearly overpowered you._

_I am fine now,_  he said.  _Somehow._  Then his gaze traveled beyond her to Murtagh. He was hidden behind Thorn's leg. Eragon patted Saphira and went after his brother.

Thorn snorted when he drew near. Eragon caught the awful sound of gagging and coughing for only a second, and then Murtagh strolled around Thorn's leg, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He plopped down on his dragon's paw and leaned back, casual as could be. But casual could only be done so well when one was as miserable as Murtagh must have been. He shook from head to toe and clasped his arms around himself. Even in the waning sunlight, his face was completely white, and the shadows under his eyes were enormous. His eyes, normally so stormy and fierce, were hollow.

Eragon removed his cloak and offered it to him, for Murtagh no longer wore one. "That took a lot out of you."

Murtagh blinked at the garment but did not accept it. He shrugged, and that was the only response Eragon received from him.

"You need to tell me what is going on," Eragon said. It was not a demand, it was a plea. Galbatorix's voice echoed through his mind during that brief moment he was connected with the spirit's internal workings. Shivering, he drew the cloak to his chest and wrapped both arms around it. "I saw Galbatorix when you—"

"Eragon," called out Katrina, and she and Roran approached.

Katrina ran to Eragon and wrapped her arms around him. Roran held Ismira, and the little girl drooled as she slept on his shoulder. Wrapped up in her father's arms, safe and warm, of course she slept. Warmth filled Eragon again, and a smile spread across his face. All of the tension in his muscles melted away, and he sank in Katrina's arms.

She kissed his cheek and stepped back, and then she glanced at Murtagh. Sincere and kind, she whispered, "Thank you."

Murtagh offered the slightest nod.

"Can you use that magic again?" Roran asked Murtagh, and now his tone had changed. It was not hostile or bitter, only curt. "To take us back to Carvahall?"

Eragon was about to protest, but Murtagh nodded. He slipped off Thorn's paw and stood, visibly shaking, and closed his eyes. The air ripped open, and swirling darkness bulged out.

"It will take us back," Baldor said to everyone else, and he went through the tear without a second thought.

Albriech followed, then Horst, and then everyone else. Roran held Katrina's hand, and they went together. Finally, Saphira plodded through, and Eragon was right on her tail.

"You look awful," Eragon said to Murtagh before stepping into the rip. He hoped to elicit some sort of comeback or clever remark from his brother, but Murtagh did not answer and stared at the trampled snow.

With a sigh, Eragon entered the rip and returned to Carvahall in a blink. Thorn and Murtagh came last of all, and the tear in the air mended and the darkness vanished. For a short while, the people clamored in the center of the town and chatted about all of the latest occurrences, about the creature, about the end of Alagaësia. The entire time, Murtagh stood in Thorn's shadow, out of sight and out of mind. If possible, his face was paler than before.

"You should come in and rest," Katrina suggested to Eragon after conversing with a few other women. Roran nodded even as she turned her focus to Murtagh. "Won't you have a meal with us?"

Murtagh's eyes remained fixed on the ground. They came up about halfway and then dropped again. He turned his body away from them. "Thank you, but I should go." Every word was weak and forced. Murtagh stepped around Thorn and hauled himself into the saddle. Without a word, without so much as another look, they took off into the sky and sent a whirlwind of snow through Carvahall from their sudden departure.

"Murtagh!" Eragon shouted, and he shot a look to Saphira. Words were not necessary. She growled and followed after them. At least with her after them, he would be fully aware of where they went.

"Will you come in and rest?" Katrina asked, and her shoulders sank.

"Yes, thank you." Eragon frowned at the fleeing dragons. Then he joined Roran and Katrina and returned with them to their home.

\-----

It was late when Eragon went after Saphira, and he brought with him a parcel of food for Murtagh and a spare bundle of clothing. They were not far from Carvahall, and a dead tree was burning nearby. A dragon's attempt at a campfire, no doubt. Saphira and Thorn were wound together, their wings and tails entwined. Yet when Eragon approached, Saphira rose and stepped back.

Murtagh was asleep between them, drenched in sweat and every inch of him shaking. Foggy puffs of air escaped his lips in rapid bursts. He was pressed against Thorn's side but kept shifting, and his face contorted every other second as if in the throes of a grave nightmare.

Eragon warmed the air with magic and set the meal aside. Shaking out a cloak from the items he had brought, he laid it over Murtagh. Then he sat at his head and leaned back against Thorn. Saphira shuffled close to them, curling her tail around them.

"What is happening to him?" Eragon asked, and he turned his eyes to Thorn. If anyone knew what Murtagh was going through, it would be him. Yet the dragon only exhaled a puff of smoke and averted his gaze. "I understand he is using powerful magic that humans ordinarily cannot use, but  _this_ … What have the spirits done to him?"

_You will have to speak with him._  A growl rumbled from Thorn's chest.

"He will not answer me." Eragon brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. Despite his warming magic and cloak, bumps spread across his skin. "Will he not tell you either?"

Thorn's head shifted away only slightly. Perhaps it was true. Nearby, the tree toppled over within the flames.

"When that spirit fell apart, I saw and heard Galbatorix," Eragon said. "Why?"

_I saw as well,_  Saphira said.

Thorn did not respond.

Eragon sighed. He touched his hand to Murtagh's forehead and grimaced from the excessive heat. "Did he take medicine?"

_Yes,_  said Thorn. Saphira hummed in agreement.

Retracting his hand, Eragon winced whenever Murtagh flinched and he squirmed whenever his brother twisted in his sleep. Whatever plagued him caused much harm. Barely above a whisper, Eragon said to Murtagh, "Share with me what troubles you. The load is easier to carry when you are not alone."

Deep in his throat, Thorn groaned. Eragon slid down Thorn's side and settled on the ground close to Murtagh, and he stretched out his legs. Silence prevailed, but Eragon could not sleep. Instead, he could only sit and watch as his brother suffered.

Saphira's eye gleamed, and she exhaled a puff of fire.  _Perhaps you should nestle him._

Thorn's head popped up.

"Nestle?" Eragon raised an eyebrow.

_Yes,_  said Thorn.  _For the purpose of comfort and bonding._

"Nestle?" Glancing between the two dragons, Eragon's lip twitched up into a crooked smile. Were they teasing?

_Yes, your kin would like to nestle with you._  When Saphira spoke, her voice was calm.  _I forgot to inform you. I apologize._

"Did he—" started Eragon, but he stopped himself. No, of course Murtagh would not have said something silly like that. Yet both Saphira and Thorn were speaking plain and honest. His cheeks burning, all he could say again was, "Nestle?"

_It seems you would enjoy it as well,_ said Saphira.  _I told Murtagh as much, but he did not believe me._

Eragon's entire face burned. "W-what?" Shaking his head and huffing, he said, "You truly had a conversation about this?"

_As far as humans are concerned, nestling is no small matter._  Thorn folded one paw over the other.

Sputtering a laugh, Eragon rubbed the back of his head and slipped to the ground. "You two are odd together." Then he folded his arm under his head and rolled over to go to sleep.

Saphira and Thorn both hummed, and so he assumed, at least in part, their conversation was meant in jest. Yet as he drifted to sleep, they continued to banter quietly, and they kept him in the conversation.

_Humans are shy as far as nestling is concerned,_  said Saphira.

_Yet it is vital for their health and wellbeing._  Thorn snorted.  _All humans should nestle their kin._

_I agree._  Saphira hummed.

_I will inform my Rider that his kin would like to nestle with him._

_Please do. Thank you._

Eragon rubbed his hand over his face and laughed. For once, Murtagh was lucky to be unconscious.


	42. Carvahall's Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and commenting, all~ There are a lot of amazing stories in the world, and I appreciate you taking some of your time for this one~ I appreciate you so much!

Galbatorix grinned, amusement and contentment settling upon his breast. Villages in flames, people burning alive, entire cities razed on account of one or two rebels, torture upon torture. One hundred years and it never grew wearisome.

Stepping down from his throne, he stood over the son of Morzan who lay broken on the floor. The boy called Eragon had escaped on account of this one, and he and the people of the Varden still fancied they could oppose him without repercussions. Disobedience would always be punished.

Galbatorix crouched beside Murtagh.  _This_  one was being particularly difficult, and that made the torture that much more fun. The boy would not look at him, looked instead at his battered dragon across the room. Galbatorix stepped into his subject's head without restriction, sifting through his memories, all of his private and anxious thoughts. His dragon, his brother, a young woman—all he cared for and would live and die for. The perfect tools to use against him.

Shifting back a piece of Murtagh's hair, Galbatorix smiled. The boy hated it. He hated his touch. He hated his trespasses into his mind. He hated everything about him. And so Galbatorix persisted, reminding Murtagh that he  _belonged_  to him, body and mind. He would steal from him his agency, his sense of self, until the boy no longer had the capacity even to hate.

And then Murtagh looked at him and held his gaze. For only a moment, defiance flashed through his eyes. He would not be broken. Not yet. Galbatorix grinned and accepted the challenge. Rising, he walked away and uttered only a word. Behind him, his subject writhed on the floor, screaming as every muscle in his body contracted and twisted.

It was a merciful punishment for the son of Morzan.

_Murtagh._

Galbatorix kept walking.

_Murtagh!_

He deserved far worse for everything he had done.

_Murtagh, wake up!_

Murtagh deserved far worse.

A dragon's roar shook him, and Murtagh flew upright, white lights flashing across his eyes and his ears ringing. Everything was tilting and swaying, his entire body was tumbling, and so he clawed for anything stable to hold. Something hard fell over him, pinning him down. His heart hammered in his chest too fast and his lungs constricted. The weight on his chest was suffocating him. He scratched at whatever held him down until his fingers were raw and blood trickled down his hands, but it would not budge.

A second roar straight in his ear jolted him back into himself. Murtagh lay on the ground frozen, paralyzed, and he gasped for breath. Overhead, the sky was a flawless blue. The weight on his chest lifted as Thorn withdrew his heavy paw, and the dragon leaned his head close and blinked one narrowed eye at him.

_Have you returned to me?_  asked Thorn.

Nightmares. They were nightmares and memories.

Compassion poured over Murtagh like an avalanche along with worry and fear. Murtagh was hurting Thorn again, as he always did. And so immediately he put up as many walls as he could muster, creating a haphazard barrier around his mind. His nightmares would stay his. His memories would stay his. Every inch of Murtagh took to violent trembling, and the sweat that drenched his skin and hair, that soaked his clothes, dried in the wind and sent chills across his limbs.

Thorn snorted and prodded at him with his snout until Murtagh sat up, and then the dragon curled around him. Thorn brought one paw forward, setting it against Murtagh's back, and pressed him into the crook of his neck. Murtagh remained paralyzed, fearful of retribution for one of his many infractions, but nothing happened. Thorn set his head in the snow and watched him.

_You are Murtagh,_  Thorn said, his mental voice firm but kind.  _You are not Galbatorix._

Little difference existed between one and the other. Murtagh pressed his cheek against Thorn's scales, and they were like sharp shards of ice against his skin. He ran his fingers across their smooth surfaces and flinched as he left trails of blood on them. His fingertips were raw and bloody, and he drew them back to himself and pulled his arms tight to his chest. He could not stop the shaking.

_You are losing yourself. Return to me._  Thorn squeezed him with his paw.

"I cannot do this," Murtagh murmured, and his throat ached. Wheezing, he clasped his shirt over his chest. Dull throbbing settled deep in his lungs. To Thorn but also to the spirit in his mind, he whispered, "How many more? I cannot do this again…"

_Allow me in. You are safe now._  Thorn prodded at the walls in his mind but did not try to force himself inside.

Murtagh allowed some but not all of his barriers to crumble. He would not hurt Thorn, not again. Never again. Tremors ran down Thorn's back as he experienced Galbatorix's memories through Murtagh, and he growled and snorted out a puff of flames. Then they rested in perfect silence. Murtagh finally healed his hands.

_You are safe,_  said Thorn again, and Murtagh met and held his gaze.

Entwined in mind and body, they remained as such for a long while. Then finally Murtagh stood on shaky legs, and everything went spinning again. His vision blurred and his stomach leapt within him. Grasping at Thorn's side for stability, he held his head. Gradually his senses cleared.

A bundle of clothing had been left on the ground, and Murtagh claimed it for himself and changed under the shelter of Thorn's wing. Shaking the snow off a fallen woolen cloak, he spun it around his shoulders and pulled it tight around him. Gifts from Eragon, most likely.

Not far away stood the town of Carvahall, and light smoke rolled out of several if not all of the houses. White mountains stretched in every direction and enormous hills of snow buried the valley. Murtagh had spent enough time in winter for the past year, and the endless snow and cold were maddening. Even the sun's light lacked its usual stubborn warmth. Everything had simply given up.

Murtagh adjusted his mind into the realm of spirits. Clumps of threads blazed in several different directions, but in the south was a massive, overwhelming knot of them that radiated black mist. The knot surged with energy and trembled, unraveling for only a second, and then it lurched back together again. From such distance, Murtagh could not touch it.

_A dark spirit?_  he asked the being in his head.

_Yes_ , said the spirit of balance, quick and to the point as always.

_Where are the others?_  If he could find them easily, he could deal with them before he completely fell apart. One swift strike after another would be more effective than slowly dying between blows.

_At rest._  The spirit stirred, brushing against his thoughts and memories in such a way that he cringed. Then it said,  _You will not succumb before your task is complete._

"I would not be so certain of that," muttered Murtagh, and he rubbed the back of his head. Behind him, Thorn sat up and tipped his head.

_You will not, for it is not within your nature,_  the spirit said, and again it spoke in calculated precision. Its tone never wavered, always distant, always factual, always certain.  _In dire circumstances, you thrive. As your flesh grows weak, your mind strengthens._

_It sounds as though you are killing me on purpose._  Murtagh growled and withdrew from the spirit world, and the threads around him faded away. South it was, wherever it would take them.

_Your undoing is a mere consequence of our conflicting natures,_  insisted the spirit.  _I do not desire death or life for your kind, only balance._

Sighing, Murtagh shrugged. A shadow zipped across the snow, fast as a bird but significantly larger. As he lifted his head, the carcass of a deer plummeted out of the air and landed at his side. Murtagh jumped and stepped back, nearly losing his footing in the deep snow.

_Gifts!_  called out Saphira from up high, and a second deer landed behind Murtagh with a thud.

Thorn jumped at one of the carcasses, ripping into it and devouring it in an instant. The second deer followed. However long Murtagh had slept, he had no idea, but he did not doubt Thorn refused to leave his side the entire time. Snow would provide water but not food. His weakness was affecting Thorn in more ways than he could count.

Saphira attempted to land on the ground and flopped into a particularly deep pile of snow. Shuddering, she scurried out of the heap and shook herself off before folding her wings. Eragon jumped off her back and toppled into the same snow pile as she had, and he vanished underneath it. At least they were clumsy together. He rolled out muttering and brushing snow out of his hair.

"Soon no one will be able to move," Eragon grumbled as he trudged out of the deep snow to stand at Murtagh's side. He gave Murtagh a once-over and then reached a hand towards him. Murtagh recoiled. Eragon scrunched his face in displeasure and followed him, pressing his hand to his forehead. "Would you stop?" Then Eragon's expression darkened and he retracted his hand. "Your fever keeps rising. At this rate, you  _will_  run out of medicine."

Murtagh shuffled in place, scratching at the back of his neck, and then he sighed. "The next spirit is in the south. I don't know where exactly. I want to leave now before I lose sight of it."

"Sight of it?" Eragon scanned the mountaintops and brilliant sky, his brow pinching tight in a frown. He knew better than to ask, though, and so he simply nodded. "I'm ready to go whenever you are."

"I have one thing to tend to in Carvahall—two, actually," Murtagh said, and he faced Thorn.

His dragon had finished his meal and was sprawled on the ground, kneading his paws in the snow and flexing his claws. When Murtagh's attention fell on him, Thorn popped up and stretched his legs and wings, shaking snow off his scales. Murtagh climbed into the saddle on his back. Beyond Thorn was a large pile of ash and what appeared to be the charred remains of tree branches. Before Murtagh could question, another thump arose from the snow. Saphira stared down into a hole where Eragon had fallen.

"Why did you land here?" Eragon grumbled, crawling out of the pit and feeling for more stable ground.

_It was fun for me,_  Saphira said, and her eyes gleamed.

Eragon mounted Saphira, and together they took flight. Thorn and Saphira ferried them to Carvahall's entrance. Once there, Murtagh and Eragon went on alone. It only took a matter of seconds before Thorn and Saphira scuttled away into deeper snow, jumping through it like small children. Eventually they nipped at each other, and then they wrestled and took turns pinning each other down. A familiar sensation of belonging and warmth filled Murtagh from Thorn and, if only for a while, washed away his troubled thoughts. Eragon smiled and likely felt the same from Saphira.

Inside Carvahall, Murtagh went straight to the center where Roran had been harmed. The charred wood and stone slab were gone, and not a trace of the attack remained. Even the planks of wood and roofs that Murtagh stole to give himself strength had been replaced, and he spun and frowned.

Eragon stood at his side and folded his arms over his chest. "People are resilient." Their eyes met, and his younger brother smiled. "You need not carry every burden alone." Then his expression and voice softened, and barely above a whisper, he said, "I will not force anything from you, but I am here for you if ever you want to share your burden."

Murtagh opened his mouth and abruptly closed it again. Eragon clasped his shoulder and squeezed. A light shone in his eyes and warmth poured from his words, and Murtagh had no choice but to believe him. All he could do was offer his sibling a tiny nod, for his breath escaped him. Eragon released him and turned, and a handful of townspeople approached.

Facing away from them, Murtagh closed his eyes. With only his mind, he cast spells of protection over Carvahall and its entire people. White light spread out from him and rose above the houses, higher than the tallest puff of smoke and beyond. Shining webs wrapped around each individual person and disappeared.

Eragon glanced over his shoulder at him. Murtagh stared at the snow between his feet. His boots were in awful shape. It was the only thing he cared to notice as his strength melted away and his head throbbed. Jovial chattering arose behind him, and then a hand touched his arm. Murtagh jumped.

Roran's wife stood at his side, and her grip on him was steady. She held the little redheaded girl in her other arm. "You should have stayed with us. You look exhausted."

"I am fine, but thank you," he said, and he managed a smile.

"You are not even a decent liar," she muttered.

With a sigh, she passed the little girl into Murtagh's arms, and with wide eyes and slightly parted lips, he took the child. Then Roran's wife turned and took a large parcel out of Roran's hands and untied it before explaining several things to Eragon. Something about food. The little girl stared at Murtagh, and he stared back. Her eyes bulged from her round face, and her lower lip gave the slightest quiver.

Murtagh swallowed a lump in his throat, and he bounced her in an effort to comfort her. Then he whispered a word of magic. Swirls of sparkling color fluttered between them, and the little girl's eyes snapped away from him and landed on the vibrant display. Her lips twitched into a smile until she looked at him again. The quiver returned. Murtagh tried magic again, and this time when she looked at him, her smile remained. He smiled, too. After a few more tiny bursts of color, the little girl laughed from deep in her belly, and she wriggled in his arms.

Everyone was staring at them, and Murtagh's heart skipped a beat. Eragon grinned.

"I have not heard her laugh like that in a while," said Roran's wife, and she patted the child's back. "Do you like him, Ismira?"

The child squealed and kicked her pudgy legs, and then she twisted in his arms and reached for her mother. Murtagh handed her back. Nevertheless, little Ismira stared at him as she gnawed on her hand, and then she giggled and looked to her mother.

Then Roran touched his wife's back and tipped his head to the side. "Katrina," he said, and she nodded.

"Please come here if you have any need," said Katrina, and her eyes went from Eragon to Murtagh. "Thank you for everything."

With that, she took Ismira aside and allowed others through. Roran embraced Eragon and shared with him many intimate words. Murtagh shifted to leave but stopped when Gertrude rushed out of her home with a package in her hands, and her focus was set straight on him. Her apron fluttered.

"Now wait a moment," she called out. When she reached him, she leaned forward and panted for air. Then she held out the package to him. He did not immediately take it, and so she turned his hand and set it in his palm. "Don't think I have forgotten the mess you have been the last two times I have seen you. Take this." Brushing her hands together in front of her, she then set them upon her hip. Her forehead wrinkled. "I have an assortment of medicines for you in there. Some for…"

Murtagh lost track of the various things she said next. His eyes landed on the parcel but did not  _see_ it.

Gertrude continued, "Everything should have a proper label. Do take better care of yourself. Excuse you!" She snapped her fingers at him and brought his attention back to her. Eragon and Roran looked over, too. "You are still young, and you have one life. Do not throw it away carelessly."

"S-sorry," Murtagh murmured, and he lifted his shoulders and rubbed his arm.

"Now Eragon…" Gertrude turned her sights on him instead, scolding him over several small matters.

Roran grinned until he stood before Murtagh, and then his face fell. They met eyes.

Gray eyes. Murtagh's heart skipped several beats, and his lungs stilled in his chest. They had the same eyes.

Roran shifted, squeezing his shoulder blades back, and he opened his mouth several times without producing a sound. Then at last he extended his hand to Murtagh. "Thank you." Murtagh accepted, and Roran pulled him close until they were shoulder to shoulder. Similar to their first encounter many weeks back, Roran leaned close to whisper in his ear. His hatred was gone, and with soft words, he said, "Thank you for saving my family. And thank you for protecting Eragon." Roran withdrew, but his grip on his hand remained. Their eyes met again. "You are welcome here."

Murtagh could not control the tremble in his voice as he said, "Thank you."

Roran released him, offered Eragon one last nod, and then he left with Katrina and Ismira. Gertrude departed as well. A handful of others gathered around them, and while most clamored around Eragon, several others, about twenty in fact, came to bid farewell and good luck to Murtagh. By the time the whirlwind of people finally ceased, Murtagh was dizzy.

Horst, Albriech, Baldor, and a woman with her infant child came last of all.

"It seems I have done you a great disservice," said Horst to Murtagh. "I apologize."

"I don't recall." Murtagh lifted and dropped his shoulders.

"You came for a sword." Horst cast his gaze towards the large building with the forge. "We only knew of you from the war as Galbatorix's champion, but it seems we made a hasty judgment about you." Folding his arms across his chest, he stood straight. Murtagh was tall, but this man towered over him. "Tell me straight. Did you serve Galbatorix willingly?"

"No," Murtagh said. "But I did serve him."

Horst grumbled something under his breath, and then he took a polished wood case out of Albriech's hand. "At the time I refused you a sword, and now it seems you have no need of one. Instead, I offer you this." Opening the case, he revealed a slim silver dagger with a curved crossguard and a black grip with silver wire twisted through it. It was a magnificent blade. "It is one of my finest works."

Murtagh did not doubt it, and so he shook his head. "I cannot accept that. You are a blacksmith by trade. Sell it and earn for your family. You can—"

"Lad!" Horst's voice boomed, and he took Murtagh's hand and slapped the case into it. He held it there and pressed it tight against his palm. "I watched you climb through pits of fire for us. You saved my wife, my boys, and my daughter." Horst released him and left the case in his hand. "A dagger is the least of what I can give you."

Bringing the case to himself, Murtagh nodded. "Thank you."

"Besides, only a fool would do what you did." Snorting, Horst turned to walk away. "Next time you go rock climbing, use my dagger instead of a sword."

Murtagh chuckled. Hopefully there would be no next time.

"Thank you," said Albriech and Baldor, and then they left with Horst.

The woman embraced Murtagh with one arm and tipped her head at him. "Thank you." Turning, she followed the others and left Murtagh and Eragon alone.

"Well." Eragon exhaled and lifted the parcel given by Katrina. "Shall we be off?"

"Yes," Murtagh said.

In one hand he held the package of medicine and in the other was the case with the extravagant dagger. Neither did he know what to do with. Among nobility, at least in his case, gifts were only given to curry favor with Galbatorix  _through_  him. These gifts had no strings attached, and he did not deserve them.

Far off in the distance, a pillar of fire launched into the air with a thunderous boom. Thorn and Saphira zipped up the side of a mountain together, and then she tackled him and they rolled down in a tight ball of red and blue. Much snarling and roaring ensued, but joy continued to seep into Murtagh from his dragon. They fought as siblings would.

Relief washed over Murtagh, and all of the pain, fatigue, and heartache drained out of him. After he was gone, Thorn would have a place to belong. And not just Thorn. Murtagh would ensure everyone had a place. Alagaësia would not fall under his watch. One way or another, he would not die, would not disappear, until he made certain of it.

Walking side by side, Murtagh and Eragon left Carvahall.


	43. To Meet a God

Another uneventful flight across the Hadarac Desert. Hadarac Tundra. Hadarac Barren Wasteland. Whatever it was now, Murtagh was tired of it. Snow stretched on for as far as the eye could see in any given direction, the horizon was a frosty white, and the sky was cloaked in pale gray clouds. To make matters worse, the wind gusted and swirled vortexes of snow up off the ground. When Thorn and Saphira rose to avoid them, thick snow poured out of the clouds. Eragon used magic to shield them from the elements.

After leaving the Spine, Murtagh directed their course after one of the brightest, most erratic knots of energy he could find. It took them southeast across the desert towards Farthen Dûr, and the further they went, the more likely it appeared their target was Tronjheim. Murtagh's stomach sank, for his last experience there had been a poor one.

_Murtagh,_  said Eragon, and Saphira drifted from one side of Thorn to the other.  _Do you see that?_

Murtagh squinted through the snow. Still far off in the distance, near to where the Hadarac Desert met its end and the Beor Mountains began, was a line of black that stood in stark contrast against the endless field of white. Perhaps the snow was playing tricks on them, but the line bobbed up and down.

It may have been part of a spirit and its shifting darkness, but it did not have the same sort of presence as magic. When Murtagh extended his mind to it, he found nothing at all, only empty space. His shoulders fell before he even had the opportunity to declare to himself what it was he found.

Urgals.

Before them was a sprawling army of Urgals marching towards the mountains, and in their heads was nothing but empty space. An army ruled by spirits. The Urgals wore thick leather armor and bore swords, clubs, and shields. Many had heavy bows with enormous, club-like arrows. Kulls surrounded the army on every side, hemming in their smaller, weaker members.

_What are they doing here?_  Eragon asked, and there was a waver in his mental voice that suggested he already knew.

_Spirits,_  Murtagh confirmed, and he scanned for the pulsing thread that would undo the spirit's hold.

Yet he found nothing. No spirit lingered over them or concealed itself within their ranks. A single pulsing thread ran from the Urgal army all the way to the Beor Mountains and was lost in the blazing black knot that rolled over the mountain peaks in a bulging mess.

_Can you locate it?_  Eragon's anxious thoughts spilled into Murtagh through his words.

_It's not here._  Murtagh struggled to swallow a lump in his throat.  _The spirit controlling them is definitely already under Farthen Dûr._

_Tronjheim and the dwarves!_  Eragon and Saphira shot forward over the army and went straight for the mountains. They spun back around and returned to them as Murtagh and Thorn lingered. Exasperation reached Murtagh from Eragon's mind, and as Saphira drew close to Thorn, his sibling's face was contorted in a frown.  _What are you waiting for?_

Murtagh squeezed the white spike in front of him with one hand, and he stared at a select few of Thorn's scales.  _I killed their king. I cannot simply go in and do as I please._

_If you do nothing, you sentence them to death!_  Eragon gave him a forceful mental shake. Then he shouted between them, "Murtagh!"

_They will do more than imprison me, Eragon. They will want my life._  Murtagh shot Eragon a look across the narrow divide between them.

Eragon shook his head but did not refute his statement. Instead, Saphira dropped out of the sky and buzzed over the heads of the advancing Urgals. Not a single Urgal looked up or paid her any mind, and they continued with their mindless march. Then Saphira slipped into the mountains and vanished behind a veil of swirling snow, and the spell for warmth and protection against the elements vanished from around Murtagh and Thorn. He cast one for himself.

_I understand your sentiments,_  started Thorn, but even his tone was stern.  _However, we cannot ignore them if they are in danger._

_I know._ Murtagh rubbed his head, and as they dipped over the Urgals, he scowled down at them. A few of the Urgals trampled over each other without noticing. What a twisted thing, the corrupted spirits.  _But too much is at stake for me to simply lie down and die._  Between the Urgals and the mountains lay a snowy stretch of land. Murtagh tipped his head.  _Land for a moment._

Thorn did as he requested and swerved through the air, setting his paws in the deep snow. Murtagh jumped off, and before he hit the snow, he used magic to solidify it so he could stand as if on solid ground. The single thread running from the Urgals to the mountains flashed, and the knot of dark energy swirling over Farthen Dûr grew. The number of strings swirling through it doubled in a blink.

"What is the purpose of any of this?" Murtagh asked, and though he would value Thorn's opinion on the matter, he more wanted to know what the spirit in his head had to say. "Sending us around to slaughter each other. Why?"

_It is what malice has taught us,_  said the spirit.  _We have suffered grave harm, and so we harm. It is balance._

Murtagh exhaled a laugh and rubbed his brow. "Balance."

_We must stop them from fighting,_  Thorn said, and he nudged Murtagh's back with his snout.  _Your kin and mine are in danger now. If the tiny ones threaten your life, I will eat them._

"I will not turn their hostility towards you," muttered Murtagh, and he growled.

Nevertheless, Thorn was right. Eragon and Saphira were inside, and Murtagh had no ill will towards the dwarves. Yet even now, the Urgals were too near to Farthen Dûr for his comfort. Even if the spirit was released and its hold was broken, the Urgals may very well choose to fight simply out of convenience, and the dwarves would be forced to retaliate in kind. Murtagh could create a barrier to keep the Urgals at bay—

Balls of fire rained out of the sky and smashed into the army, and clusters of Urgals melted and turned to ash without so much as a grunt or a scream. The ground shook under the force of impact. Murtagh staggered backwards and fell against Thorn, and then his head whipped up.

A single Lethrblaka swooped over the army. Riding upon it was the Shade in Tornac's body, and in his hand he held a brilliant ball of flames. Snapping his wrist, he unleashed it upon the earth. It grew in size and rolled over the Urgals until it hit an invisible wall called forth from Murtagh's lips. The flames shattered and dissolved into smoke.

"After him!" Murtagh hoisted himself into Thorn's saddle, and his partner burst off the ground with his powerful hind legs.

"You should have killed me when you had the chance," said the Shade with a laugh, and he flipped back his wavy crimson hair and bared his teeth. "Now look at the death your hesitation has caused."

Murtagh flinched at the words for only a second before Thorn ordered,  _Do not listen to him. You are not to blame for another's cruelty._

As if the Shade heard them, he grinned from ear to ear and then launched another flaming sphere. Murtagh caught it in midair and made it implode just over the Shade's head. The Lethrblaka swooped low and burst out of the fire in a cloud of smoke, and the Shade laughed, not a mark on him.

Drawing Zar'roc, Murtagh lit the blade with powerful spells to cleave the spirit's magic. Thorn swooped high and then plummeted over the Lethrblaka, claws extended. The dark creature swirled aside, and Murtagh slashed at its exposed underside. His blade shattered a ward but did not touch the monster beneath it. Flipping over backwards, the Lethrblaka sailed by Thorn's side. The Shade swung his own sword, and Murtagh met it with Zar'roc. Their blades clashed with such force that sparks poured down and Murtagh's arm momentarily went numb. Thorn turned and snapped his fangs at the Lethrblaka's tail, but the creature dropped and evaded his bite.

The Shade hurled more explosive balls of fire upon the Urgal army, and Murtagh snuffed them out in the air. Yet the Shade only tried again until a cloud of smoke hung in the air from the smothered flames. On the ground below, Urgals tumbled into the craters left by the initial attacks, trampling over their charred allies without noticing them.

Thorn dipped through the cloud and then lurched upwards, turning aside and planting his claws into the barriers around the Lethrblaka's belly. Murtagh held the saddle for a second and then lunged around Thorn's leg, stabbing at the dark creature's stomach with his spell-shattering sword. Zar'roc cut through several wards before the Lethrblaka rolled away. Thorn plummeted and turned over, and Murtagh landed with ease back into the saddle.

Several more balls of fire flew towards the Urgals, and again Murtagh stopped them in the air. Murtagh launched them back at the Shade and shouted, "What are you trying to do?"

The Lethrblaka whirled around Thorn in a tight circle, and the Shade bore a wicked smile. "Bide time."

Then behind him, over the mountains, the knot of energy tripled in size until it flooded the sky with reaching darkness. Murtagh inhaled sharply, clenching his teeth, and he urged Thorn towards the mountains. Dwarves and spirits aside, Eragon was in there! Yet as Thorn shot forward toward Farthen Dûr, the Lethrblaka circled again and cut them off.

It was slight and slow, but the Shade of Tornac raised his hand, and he pressed his forefinger to his lips. Then dark brown seeped into his crimson eyes, and the scarlet in his hair melted away and gave way to brunette waves. Without making a sound, he mouthed a single word, "Down," and then he pointed towards the earth.

Murtagh's breath hitched in his throat, and his eyes fell. Hundreds of lights flashed on the ground. Spirits shining with a dark light rose and settled upon the advancing army. Urgals turned their weapons skyward, and blades and arrowheads shone with blinding light.

"Thorn, look out!" Murtagh screamed, and at the same instant, he reinforced the wards around his dragon.

Shining arrows whistled through the air and struck the barrier, shattering it in a single blow. Thorn veered aside to evade the rest and then shot upwards to pass out of their range. Murtagh deflected the arrows with a strong gust of wind, knocking them back to the ground. He did not see the axe until too late, nor did his wind stop it, and it spiraled and smacked Thorn in the hind leg.

Thorn unleashed a bloodcurdling roar that made Murtagh's hair on his neck and arms stand on end. Pain rushed across their connection like a flood. Murtagh screamed through gritted teeth and caught the outside of his thigh half expecting his limb to be severed. Thorn staggered through the air, and another volley of arrows came at them. Murtagh rebuilt their barriers, but the magic-imbued weapons cut through them as though they were not even there. Instead he cast down arrows with a weighty magic that dragged them to the ground.

Despite his best intentions, Thorn hit the snow and writhed from his wounded leg. Murtagh jumped and pressed his back to Thorn, Zar'roc at the ready. The Urgal army rushed them, their blinding swords and clubs waving in the air. Another volley of arrows went flying. One after another, Murtagh suspended them in the air with only his mind before hauling them back to the earth.

Behind him, Thorn rolled. Murtagh only allowed himself a glance. The scales on Thorn's leg drained of color. Another barrage of enchanted arrows flew at them, and Murtagh deflected. He held a hand towards the Urgals and took a single step towards them, to stop them, to take their weapons, to end their attack.

And then an icy blade cut straight through Murtagh's chest from behind. He clasped over his heart, searched with gaping eyes, gasped with paralyzed lungs. There was no blood. Slowly, painfully, he turned his head.

The Shade of Tornac stood on Thorn's side, and he held a sword of light that cut straight through Thorn. Tornac's eyes and hair red as blood, he smiled as soft as could be. "See what your hesitation has wrought."

Thorn arched his back and roared a deafening cry, and before Murtagh's eyes he melted away. His color drained from his scales like blood from a wound.

Murtagh's heart stopped. It stopped with Thorn's. Their hearts stopped beating together.

"No," Murtagh whispered. Everything was quiet. His vision went red. And then he screamed, his voice echoing with Thorn's, "No!"

Everything around him exploded. The ground crumbled at his feet. Murtagh spun and reached out his hand, clasping his fingers into a tight squeeze, and the Shade screeched with bulging eyes as his body crumpled inward in an invisible hold. Murtagh ripped him off Thorn, ripped the sword away, crushed him with but a thought, and hurled his body through a rift to the far ends of the world. Then Murtagh turned and held out his hand.

Time ceased. Urgals froze in place with arms bent back, swords and clubs ready. Murtagh grabbed the spirits, every last corrupt and twisted one, and tore them away from the Urgals, away from their weapons, away from the ground. Digging deep, he plucked them out of the earth and exposed them to the light. In the air, thousands of spirits remained suspended, vulnerable.

His heart would not start beating.

Murtagh turned, and he traced his fingertips along Thorn's side. Thorn was frozen in a terrible and twisted way, the full length of his body white like snow. His heart was not beating. Murtagh called life into him, stripped power from the spirits and willed him alive. Nothing. Silence.

Red. Murtagh tore open a rift and stepped through it, and he entered the depths of Tronjheim. Everything was frozen. Black mist hung in the air like a motionless fog. Dwarves, now statues trapped in time, unleashed silent screams as their bodies turned to dust.

"Show yourself," Murtagh growled with lungs that could not breathe. He snatched the single pulsing thread and twisted it in his hand. And then he screamed. "Show yourself!"

With a fierce pull, he drew the dark spirit out of the shadows, out of the dwarves in which it had concealed itself. It roared in slow motion, twisting away from him, but Murtagh did not let go. He pulled the thread until the spirit toppled to the stone floor, its massive body writhing like a fish on a hook.

"Show yourselves!" Murtagh hollered, and then he raised his hand. A thousand more spirits he tore from the ground.

Squeezing his fingers to his palm, he dragged them all down and stripped them of their power, rid them of their life. All around him, hundreds of lights waxed and then waned until only the tiniest flecks remained. The dark spirit touched his mind, reached for him, shared with him a single thought of Galbatorix, and Murtagh hit back so hard that the spirit reeled away from him with a shrill cry. Murtagh tore it limb from limb, ripped off its wings, its legs, its tail, until only a stump of it remained. And then he ripped that apart, too. A thousand screams echoed through his mind.

_You betrayed us! I was mourning you, and you betrayed us!_

Murtagh crushed the spirits, inside, outside, he held them in place and strangled the life out of them. And yet a tear ran down his face. It was cold and intrusive.

_You have become your father._

Murtagh's hand uncurled, and he shook.

_Then let us kill the two of you._

Time began to move again, but it was slow, dreamlike. Murtagh released his grip. Spirits sank from his hold and unleashed a mournful cry, the most haunting sound ever heard by a human's ears. Tears ran freely down his face now, and he took a single breath. His heart thumped in his chest.

Through gritted teeth, he said, "I don't want to help you… for all that you have done…" And then he reached out his hand to the quivering dark spirit on the floor before him, its swirling body maimed beyond recognition. "But I will not leave you here."

As the world started moving again, Murtagh plucked apart one thread at a time and reworked each knot. Memory after haunted memory of Galbatorix crossed from the spirit to him, suffocating him. As the spirit found itself, Murtagh lost himself. And he wept. He had already lost so much to Galbatorix. He had already lost so much.

When the spirit was released from its bondage, lights spread from it throughout the city, and Murtagh hit his knees. His body shook violently, and he pressed his hand on the ground to keep from toppling over. Lights and colors flashed across his eyes in a whirlwind. Agonizing pain like hot irons burned his skin, his muscles, everything right down to the bones. He vomited blood.

"Murtagh!" Eragon's voice was not far.

Murtagh crept around but could not see.

A booming voice shouted, "Take him!"

Shouting and pounding footsteps hammered through Murtagh's head. A second later, silence fell. Murtagh blinked repeatedly until he could make out shapes, then bodies, then faces. Everyone was frozen again, or so it seemed. Dwarves everywhere stared with bulging eyes, but not as statues. Weapons hit the floor. Several stepped back. Eragon, too. Dwarf king Orik was at his side, mouth gaping.

Murtagh turned back around.

A being of light towered over him. Its body shifted and wavered, occasionally a mist, sometimes a cross between human and dwarf. Powerful feet settled on either side of Murtagh, and it hunched over, its long arms hanging low until its stubby hands hit the floor. Murtagh flopped backwards and crawled away, but it caught him in a tangible, shining hand. It lifted him and did not hurt him, and then it set him on his feet.

_You must not shrink before me. Stand._

It spoke the powerful words of a spirit, but its dialect was like that of a dwarf. It strolled into Murtagh's head with nary a struggle, and when their consciousnesses connected, the secrets of the world were laid bare for Murtagh to see. Ancient. These beings were ancient.

"What do you want?" Murtagh asked, and his voice broke. He could do nothing more. He had nothing else to give. As he was set upon his feet, he trembled, but he remained standing.

The being leaned over him, drawing near to him with what may have been its head. Its face flickered into something like a dwarf, and then it blurred together again in a swirling mass of lights.

_You have saved us,_  it said.  _Malice came, and now we are free. You have our gratitude._

"I don't care." Tears ran down Murtagh's face, and he could not stop them.

Eventually, the pain subsided, and he was numb. Numb, trapped with his empty, hollow, trivial existence and hundreds of horrific memories not his own that still killed him inside.

_You have sacrificed much, and it will not be forgotten._

Murtagh shook again, and he stared at the floor. "Yes it will be." After a while he lifted his head and searched the being's head, its twisting, shifting face. Galbatorix's laughter echoed in his head. "I can't…"

_You will continue, and you will succeed._

"I can't," Murtagh said through gritted teeth. His voice rose as he tried to drown out Galbatorix's words.

_You must,_  it replied, and it leaned closer still, like a human bending over to scrutinize an ant.

"I won't!" Murtagh screamed now, and he clawed at his head. In his mind, people screamed, thousands of people, as they died, as he killed them.

_You must!_  Now the being slammed its stout hands on the floor. The towering walls of Tronjheim shuddered, and lanterns and dwarves toppled down.  _You are the keeper!_

"Let the keeper go somewhere else!" yelled Murtagh. "Let it find another head!"

_No,_  said the massive being. With a thick finger, he pressed against Murtagh's forehead, and it was frigid and sent chills down his spine.  _The keeper is not here._  The hand slipped to Murtagh's chest and pressed over his heart.  _The keeper is here._  When Murtagh blinked at the shining finger upon his chest, the being said,  _It is why you are the one._

"I don't understand," Murtagh said, his voice breaking again. Tears kept falling. He grabbed his head. A hundred years of violence, torture, and death bounced through his mind, and he wanted to die. "I don't understand. Make it stop."

_You are the keeper of balance,_  said the being, and it retracted its hand and settled it on the floor, one on each side of Murtagh. It leaned its face close.  _You are hate, and you are love. You are war, and you are peace. You are malice, and you are benevolence. You are a slave, and you are free._ It pressed against Murtagh, a hundred colors shining through its translucent form. _You understand, because you are balance._

"Is that why you chose me?" Murtagh whispered to the spirit in his head, and he dropped his hands to his sides. "Over Eragon—over anyone else. Because I had suffered, too?" The spirit did not respond, and Murtagh shuddered. "Answer me!"

_On that day, you resisted them in strength of mind,_  said the spirit without compassion, without praise, without any emotion at all. It was a statement of fact.  _In understanding today you spared them. You are necessary._

Murtagh held his head again and could say nothing. The images and the screams would not stop.

The massive being lowered itself to its knees over Murtagh, and it plucked a stone off the ground. Lifting it up, it breathed on it a puff of glittering smoke. The stone stretched out and melted into a crystal clear blade, and silver and gold weaved into a glinting hilt adorned with pearly white gems. The being lowered the newly formed sword, short though it was, and offered it to Murtagh.

_Give this to the dwarf king,_  it said.  _As a gift from Gûntera. May it buy you his favor until your task is accomplished._

Murtagh received it, and his arms sank from its weight. Breathless and faint, he murmured, "Thank you."

_Lift up your head,_  said the being called Gûntera, and it rose to its full height and towered in the enormous room.  _Go in great strength, Islingr._  And then at once, it faded away, and all of the lights, all of the spirits, were gone.

No one else moved. Murtagh dragged his feet across the floor, half limping, barely walking, and stopped in front of the dwarf Orik. Sinking to his knees, he bent forward so that he was lower than him, his face to the floor. Then, he raised the sword in upturned palms and offered it to him.

"A gift from Gûntera," he whispered. A thousand waking nightmares ran through his head, and his voice trembled. "I am guilty of unforgivable crimes. If you see fit, use this sword to slay me now." Silence followed, and the sword remained on his palms. "However, if you can withhold my sentence, I would like to spare the spirits from the great harm befalling them. When I am finished with my task, if I still have breath in my lungs, I will return to you, and you can do with me as you please."

The sword left his hands. Murtagh dropped his arms but kept his head down, neck bared.

"And how can I trust you to return?" asked Orik, his voice hard and cold.

" _Vel eïnradhin iet ai Shur'tugal_ ," Murtagh answered. "King Orik, my life is yours."

Another long passage of silence, and then Orik said, calm and collected, "Go."

Hollering echoed down a long corridor, and Murtagh dared to lift his head. Several dwarves burst into the cavernous tower, scrambling as fast as their small legs would carry them. "The Urgals! The Urgals are fleeing!"

"Fleeing?" Orik echoed, and his long beard twitched.

Eragon turned, and not far from the entrance to the corridor, Saphira adjusted her wings.

"A red dragon frightened 'em off!" shouted another dwarf.

Murtagh's heart skipped a beat. On his feet in a second, he burst into a sprint. The air around him ripped open, darkness swallowed him, and he reappeared on the snowy plains beyond the mountains. Weapons were strewn at his feet along with charred garments and dust.

Beyond the battlefield, Thorn chased the fleeing army of Urgals and spewed fire at their heels. His wings were strong, his legs were steady, and his scales were vibrant red.

Murtagh choked and lunged through another tear in space, landing in the snow in front of Thorn. It was all the strength he had left in him. He staggered and fell over Thorn's paw, and he wept.

"You're alive." Murtagh's fingers dug under Thorn's scales, seeking something—anything—stable. And he sobbed like a pathetic fool.

_Why do you weep?_  Thorn sank into the snow, resting his head between his paws.  _I am alive. The spirits restored my strength when you released them._

Nevertheless, Murtagh cried. He tried to show Thorn why, flooded his mind full of his thoughts and memories. And all the while, he hated himself for it.  _I am sorry. I underestimated them… I was careless, and because of it…_

_You saved me at great cost to yourself,_  said Thorn, and he nudged his nose against Murtagh and forced him upright. Then he looked at him straight.  _As you do for all of us each time. You are guilty of no wrongdoing. Do not apologize._

_I have failed. I nearly destroyed them all… I…_ Murtagh crawled onto Thorn's paw to get out of the snow. Chills took him, and he curled over himself.  _I have failed._

_I do not see what you see._  Once again, Thorn nudged Murtagh and lifted his head.

Over the mountains, against the gray sky, were hundreds of spirits shining like colorful flames. As Murtagh raised his eyes, waves of color ran through them, and then they dipped away into hiding in the land. A familiar fluttering stirred in Murtagh's mind, and then four lesser spirits swirled from his chest and circled him while the spirit of balance remained in his person. Five spirits total joined with him now, and after everything he had done, he did not know why. They settled within him again, without hatred or fear, and a sense of peace swept over him.

It was fleeting. Murtagh shook as the numbness began to fade. Pain crawled through him. Two slight coughs escaped his lips, and the crisp air paralyzed his lungs and brought about a fit. Eventually he rolled off Thorn's paw and landed in the snow, coughing until he threw up. Everything hurt, but he deserved it all.

_Murtagh,_  said Eragon's voice from afar.

Saphira appeared from the mountains, her wings thumping against the air with rhythmic beats. Murtagh wiped his mouth and considered running, considered vanishing into a rift until he was less of a fool than he was now. He was too dizzy to muster the magic. Perhaps hiding under Thorn would work for a spell. Yet as Saphira landed and Eragon jumped down, Thorn hooked Murtagh's belt with one claw and hauled him aside.

_Th-Thorn,_  he grumbled between them.

Thorn tugged Murtagh and released him to Eragon, who caught him by his arms.

"Are you all right?" Eragon asked, and it was only a formality. His face was contorted with concern, and his eyes searched Murtagh from top to bottom. "Your fever—you're shaking. Murtagh, you—"

Murtagh pulled away and turned. Tried to walk away. Thorn growled at him. Then Murtagh's legs gave way and he toppled backwards. Eragon caught him on the way down, and they landed in the snow together. Everything faded away like a dream.

"It's all right," said Eragon in a whisper. "I've got you."

Darkness followed. Then silence. Then Galbatorix.


	44. One Stormy Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and thank you to those of you who leave a kudos or comment~ I appreciate you all so much!

Eragon slept in a chair at Murtagh's bedside. Days blurred together, and his brother's condition did not change.

After Murtagh had collapsed out in the field, Eragon brought him to Tronjheim. Medicine did nothing to combat the fever, and Eragon used so much of it that there was hardly any left. Cold water, snow, a bath of ice—nothing brought the fever down. And so he waited, changing the cool cloth on Murtagh's head from time to time, and hoped he would come around.

Eragon was not surprised by it. Everyone had witnessed Murtagh's release of the spirits and his desperate conversation with Gûntera. Everyone had seen his tears and felt in a strange and profound sort of way his deepest sorrow. Eragon had watched him try to conceal his distress, watched him try to flee, watched Murtagh  _break._

No, none of it surprised him, but he did not know why it had to be like this. Weeks ago, before traveling with Murtagh again, Eragon would have held it against him. Now, Eragon believed with every fiber of his being that Murtagh wanted to protect everyone from harm and burden, and silence was the only way he knew how.

Murtagh may not have realized how the silence hurt, too.

Folding his arms on the side of the bed, Eragon rested his head upon them. Murtagh's body shook with violent tremors, and every breath was raspy and troubled. His skin was pale like a Shade's, and his muscles were leaner now than before, as though something was eating away at him little by little. Eragon should have noticed sooner.

Had it needed to be like this? Eragon had nearly convinced Orik to permit Murtagh to enter unhindered, too, when the spirit attacked. Always was fate against Murtagh.

Eragon sighed and sank into the bed. Sleep took him for a little while, and then a warm hand ruffled his hair. It took a moment for him to make the connection, and he popped upright. Murtagh's hand dropped to the blanket. Just like that, the fool smiled. It was slight and pitiful, and perhaps a bit forced, but it was real enough because it shined through his eyes.

With his lopsided smile and a cracked and faint voice, Murtagh said, "Don't make that face."

"This is my normal face," Eragon replied, and then he mentally scolded himself. It was a trap!

Murtagh's smile brightened, but he kept whatever comments he had to himself. Eragon took the towel from his brother's forehead and dipped it in a bowl of cool water. Wringing it out, he replaced it on Murtagh's burning skin.

Murtagh blinked at him with half-open eyes. "I will be fine," he murmured. His lip went up again in an attempted smile, but this time it did not work. It came across more like a flinch. Even his feigned strength was failing him now.

"I know," Eragon said, settling in the chair. He met eyes with Murtagh. "But it is all right, too, if you are not."

Murtagh blinked at him again, expressionless. Then his eyes went glossy.

"Rest." Eragon offered a slight nod. "I'll be here."

Tipping his head, Murtagh shifted under the thin blanket and closed his eyes. He fell asleep within seconds, and his breathing, though still with an audible crackle, lightened. Eragon set his hand over Murtagh's on the bed, wincing at the heat, and then he withdrew.

Folding his arms again upon the bed, he rested his head and went to sleep.

\-----

Orik came several times to keep Eragon company, and they discussed many things, including the current situation in the world. Due to his oath to Murtagh, Eragon could not tell him of Murtagh's role in it and how he strived to save everyone. It was a shame.

Orik always carried with him the sword bestowed upon him by Gûntera, and though he never mentioned it, the way he carried it and leaned on it revealed his pride. Orik did not speak of the exchange Murtagh had with Gûntera, but something told Eragon that the dwarves as a collective whole were thankful Murtagh had come. Eragon certainly was.

It was during one of Orik's visits when Murtagh stirred again. His gray eyes opened clear and focused, and he stared at the ceiling for a long while. Finally, he turned his head, blinking at them several times before seeming to realize they were there. The shadows under his eyes had diminished, and warm color had returned to his cheeks.

Eragon smiled. "Your fever finally came down."

Murtagh scanned the room, from the windowless stone walls to the washbasin to the door. Finally his gaze found Orik, who leaned against the wall by the door. "Am I a prisoner?"

Eragon frowned. He had not noticed before, but the room, down to the bed, was exactly the same as the one Murtagh had been imprisoned in by Ajihad. It was a different room but was identical.

"Should you be?" asked Orik, his scruffy eyebrows furrowing, almost completely concealing his eyes. Murtagh did not respond, and so the dwarf let out a guttural laugh and tapped the tip of the diamond sword on the floor. "I'll trust in your word. But do not forget that your life belongs to me now." When Murtagh only gave a tiny nod in response, Orik grinned, his beard shifting. "Now that you are awake, I intend to exert my claim over you. I have a task for you and for Eragon to complete."

Murtagh's face contorted in displeasure as he began to sit up.

Eragon caught his shoulder. "Hear him out."

Again, Orik tapped the sword on the stone floor, and a melodic ring echoed in the room. He certainly did love that sword. "Just beyond the mountains to the west of here, a great storm has been raging for several weeks." Orik scratched his mustache and smoothed his beard, and then he tipped his head side to side as if to relieve tension in his neck. "It has been encroaching on our territory more every day. It isn't a natural storm. I would like you two to go and tend to it. After that, Murtagh, you are free to go until your task is accomplished. Then you return to me." His face scrunched tight, he asked, "What say you?"

Murtagh sank until his shoulders fell low, and his head sank right along with them. He was tired. Tired of trying to do everything. Tired in mind, body, and spirit.

Eragon clasped his shoulder again and gave a light shake, drawing up his eyes. "I will be there to help you."

It took another long moment, and a storm raged in Murtagh's eyes. Finally, he nodded towards Orik.

"Good," said Orik, and he went to the door. Carefully he tapped his new sword on his shoulder, and Eragon could not help but smile. He loved it dearly. "I'll prepare provisions for your travels. After a meal, you will be on your way."

When the door closed and Orik left them alone, Eragon leaned back in his chair. Then he looked Murtagh straight in the eye. "Are you even able to eat?"

Murtagh straightened and stared at him with lips pressed tight and eyes wide.

Eragon continued, "You may guard your secrets well, but even I am not such a fool. After the last two spirits you released, you became ill."

As Eragon spoke, Murtagh's shoulders went up, and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest quickened.

"You need to eat something." Eragon rose and stretched his legs and then his arms. He had been sitting hunched over the bed for too long. At last he rolled his shoulders and then set one hand comfortably over Brisingr's pommel. "I'll find something easier on the stomach. Gertrude probably sent medicine for it as well."

Murtagh said absolutely nothing and instead stared at the blanket and wrung his fingers. Surely he realized he was in need of help but was too stubborn to ask for it. Eragon would help him without the request—or permission. Leaving Murtagh alone in the room, he went in search of supplies.

Medicine for an upset stomach was, in fact, something Gertrude packed. Eragon took one of the vials from Thorn's saddlebag, which had been left within the city while the dragons were off hunting and whatever else they chose to do. Playing? Saphira had a mischievous side to her, but the way she frolicked with Thorn still always took him by surprise. As Saphira's feelings of contentment mingled with his own, he could not help but smile.

After fetching the medicine, Eragon went in search of food. That was a bit more challenging in Tronjheim, where the food was often thick and hearty. He convinced the one in charge of cooking to make a pottage filled with meat and nutrient-rich vegetables. Eragon tasted it, and bland though it was, it was edible. The dwarf cooking it made an enormous pot and then wanted nothing to do with it, so it was to be sent along with them on their journey. At least Murtagh would have something to eat for a while. Perhaps a month. It was a large pot.

Murtagh eventually came out of hiding and sat down to eat with him. At first they ate in silence. Several times Eragon peeked to ensure Murtagh was eating, and he was, and then finally his elder brother put down his spoon with a sigh and gave him a pointed look.

"Eragon, stop being a mother hen. I'm fine."

Heat rushed to Eragon's cheeks. Stammering, he said, "I'm worried about you."  _That_ stopped Murtagh with eyes wide. Then Eragon reached into the pouch on his belt and drew the vial of medicine, setting it on the table between them. "Take your medicine."

Murtagh dropped his face into his hand and shook his head. When he did not immediately receive it, Eragon moved the vial closer to him. Finally his sibling snatched it up and drank as requested, and then they continued their meal in silence.

Finishing their meal and gathering their newly acquired supplies from Orik, Eragon and Murtagh set out from Tronjheim, exiting through the long tunnels beneath Farthen Dûr. Saphira and Thorn sat in the snow, sides touching, waiting for them. Both had snow on their heads. Saphira's tail twitched from side to side.

Murtagh dropped his supplies into the snow and sprinted to Thorn the moment he saw him, running his hand across the dragon's side before stepping to his head. Thorn bent down and nuzzled against Murtagh, and they shared a quiet moment. Murtagh's hands shook.

Eragon carried what he could to Saphira's side and fastened her saddle into place. Privately to her, he asked,  _Did something happen?_

_It seems,_  she began, lowering herself to the ground so that he could more easily place supplies upon her,  _that after we departed, they were attacked. Thorn received a lethal blow and was only spared by the spirits after they were freed._

Eragon shuddered and dropped the pack he had been tying in place. His hands trembled until he curled them into his palms. A lethal blow? Suddenly, Murtagh's prior actions and sorrow made significantly more sense. Little by little, Eragon gained understanding.

Thorn was healthy and strong now, though, and he crouched and allowed Murtagh to load his back with supplies. Every action Murtagh took was slow and calculated as if he thought Thorn might break. It only lasted for about ten minutes, and then Thorn growled and bumped Murtagh with his snout and pushed him into the snow. Then he  _lightly_  stepped on him and snorted on his head. Somewhere in the snow, Murtagh laughed.

And that was that. Together, they set off to the west.

\-----

Light, freezing rain fell over Lithgow, but Murtagh insisted they press forward. Snow vanished beneath them, but only dead earth remained underneath a sheet of ice that continued to grow. Halfway to Aroughs, the storm hit hard. Clouds swirled over their heads in a raging black vortex, and lightning lashed at the frozen ground and spewed ice and dirt into the air. The rain did not allow anything to burn. Dead trees bowed low under constant gusts of wind.

Magic shielded them from the raging elements.

Saphira and Thorn deposited Eragon and Murtagh at the city gates and then vanished to seek shelter for themselves. They found a deep indent in the rocky crags along the coast. The dragons shuffled together into a tight space and curled around each other for comfort and warmth, and they remained there, perfectly content and perfectly within mental range of their Riders.

Her words no longer reached him, but her sentiments were loud and clear: nestling was an acceptable activity. Eragon's cheeks burned. Murtagh scratched at his cheek and then adjusted his cloak around his neck.

They entered through the main gate, which remained open despite the storm. No one was in the streets, and the streetlamps were all dark. The black clouds and icy rain gave the city the appearance of midnight even at midday.

It was slight, but the magic shielding them flickered. Cold rain seeped in.

Murtagh scanned the city, his eyes sharp and in a faraway place, and then he faced Eragon. His voice was muted by the wind and rain, and so he shouted, "Aside from the obvious, I don't see anything wrong here."

Eragon flinched as lightning cracked in the field beyond the city walls. Thunder boomed, rattling houses and shaking glass in windowpanes. Raising his voice, he replied, "I know someone here who might be able to give us more information."

"Jeod?" asked Murtagh, and Eragon's eyebrows went up. Murtagh  _had_  mentioned him once when they first arrived in Ellesméra. "I thought he might be an ally of yours. Follow me."

Murtagh led the way through the city, and the stone streets were nothing but ice. All the while, their shields faded until they vanished and rain poured over their heads. When they reached a house near the docks, Murtagh did not hesitate to pound on the door. All around the house were sopping wet and wilted brown plants. At one time it may have been an extravagant garden.

A young woman opened the door a crack, and she gave them only a quick look. "Now is not a good time. Please leave."

"Eragon is here to see Jeod," said Murtagh, and he pushed Eragon forward for her to see. "He will make time."

The woman's face contorted, and her eyes hit Murtagh like a bolt of lightning. With a sigh and shrill tone, she said, "You again." And then the door slammed shut.

Eragon frowned at Murtagh, who only answered him with the quick rise and fall of his shoulders.

The door flew open, and now Jeod stood on the other side. The hair across his head and his beard were wild and unkempt, and his heavy woolen shirt sagged off one shoulder. Ink was smeared on his nose. "Come in, come in." Waving his hands at them, he ushered them inside.

The young woman patted out her apron and then vanished from the room.

Jeod shut the door and rubbed his hands together before blowing on his fingers. Then he clasped Eragon's shoulders and gave a squeeze. "Eragon, it is good to see you again. And safe, no less!" His hands dropped to his forearms, and he continued to clasp him tight. "After everything that has happened, I thought the worst. Imagine my surprise when I learned you had returned, that Brom and your mother are alive, that—" And then he stopped and stared at Murtagh as if noticing him for the first time.

Murtagh kept his head down and was staring at a dirty smudge on a nearby wall. His drenched hair concealed only so much of his face.

"And Murtagh," said Jeod, and his tone dropped. Suddenly releasing Eragon, he clasped Murtagh's arms instead, startling them both. His voice rose again in wonder. "Spirits, boy! Do you have any inkling how many lives were saved by your suggestion?" Without waiting for an answer, Jeod turned and stomped through the small mansion in his leather slippers. "Come here, both of you."

Eragon and Murtagh exchanged looks, and then they followed him through the house and up polished wooden stairs. Eragon had heard Jeod and his wife had found success after the war, but the house, the decorations,  _everything_  impressed him. He was glad for them.

Jeod led them into his study and snatched something small off the table near the window, and he presented to them upon the palm of his hand a glowing purple stone. "Do you have any idea what these are?"

"That—" Eragon exhaled sharply. He took the stone and held it into the lamplight. It flickered with color. "These were under Dras-Leona." Looking past the stone to Murtagh, he said, "It was this stone that was in the chain that you wore in Ilirea." He shifted it across his palm. It was heavy. "They pass through wards with ease."

"Pass through!" Jeod exclaimed, and he took the stone back and pinched it in his fingers, waving it in the air. "It cancels magic altogether!" Eragon frowned, but Jeod continued with increasing volume. "We had studied them so little until after the war. When Murtagh mentioned spirits, I took to researching them in more detail. We had learned they pass through magic, then that they block some magic—if they are used in abundance, they cancel all magic and all beings of magic!"

"Like spirits," said Murtagh, and his eyes widened.

"Precisely!" Jeod set the stone on the table and flopped into his chair, and he rubbed his beard and unleashed a haggard breath. "Not long after you left here, when this storm hit, we were attacked. I had just received a case of these stones from the capital, and we turned them into weapons. When the creature—the spirit—attacked, we struck back and chased it off!"

"Wh—" Murtagh shuddered, and he took a single step forward, his brow furrowed. "What happened to it? Where did it go?"

"Oh, it was not very happy with us. Now it sits on Parlim Island to torment us," Jeod explained, and he tapped the stone on the table. "We put these stones around the city, and it cannot enter, but its  _storm_  can reach us. It has been attempting to drown and freeze us for the past several weeks."

Murtagh rubbed his brow and then ran both hands down his face. His shoulders sank as he sighed. "Parlim Island—where is it?"

"To the southwest of here. In better weather, you could see it from the docks." Jeod leaned back in his chair, and he rolled the purple crystal under one finger. His eyes settled on Murtagh. "You intend to fight it?"

"I intend to rescue it," said Murtagh. He blinked at the stone under Jeod's hand. "Do you have any weapons made of that stone that you could spare, or stones that you no longer need?"

Jeod shook his head and scratched his beard. "Everything we had now protects our city. Anything else should be in the hands of Nasuada or Orrin."

"What are you thinking?" Eragon asked Murtagh.

"I was thinking it would be a convenient way to deal with a Shade… or a sorcerer," Murtagh replied, and he was again staring off in a faraway place.

"We should return to Ilirea then and request some from Nasuada." Eragon shifted towards the door.

Jeod patted his thighs and then rose, bringing their attention back to him. With a tired smile, he said, "I was about to settle down for a meal. Before you run off again, why not stay and eat? I would like to hear of your travels. Perhaps I will learn something of more use from you."

Murtagh struggled on the suggestion, but Eragon stepped ahead of him with a nod to Jeod. "We will stay. Thank you."

"Right then." Jeod crossed the room and went out the door, leaving it open for them to follow.

Eragon leaned his head to the side. Murtagh sighed and went on ahead of him out the door.

\-----

Staying for a meal meant talking for hours and ultimately staying for the night. Jeod questioned Eragon about everything regarding his time on Mount Arngor, and then he went on to ask Murtagh countless questions about his interactions with the spirits. By the time their meal was finished, out came endless rounds of tea and snacks. When at last Jeod was finished with them, it was late in the night.

Jeod provided them with a warm bath and private rooms in which to spend the night. Murtagh bathed first while Eragon checked in with Saphira. Dialogue was impossible due to the magic-cancelling stones, and all of the images he received were muted, but from the general images and feelings she shared with him, Saphira was warm and content. She had curled up on top of Thorn's head, and so perhaps  _Thorn_  was not so content. Eragon decided against asking Murtagh about it.

Murtagh retired to his borrowed room as soon as he was out of the bath.

Eragon bathed and then changed into the most luxurious nightwear he had ever so much as looked at. The material was thin like linen, warm like wool, and smooth as silk. He ran his hand over the sleeve several times and then tugged the sleeves down over his hands. It was stretchy, too.

When he left the private bathing room, Eragon crept down the hall towards his room, and he paused at the door just before his own.

A cold pit settled in his stomach, and he stared for a long while at the handle. Once again he tugged the sleeves down over his hands and held them in place as another chill swept over him. Holding his breath, he tapped on the door with a single knuckle. Of course there was no answer. He knocked again with all knuckles and received no response. Taking in a deep breath, he opened the door and poked his head inside.

"Murtagh?" he whispered into the dark. A dim lamp in the hall cast a ray of light across the bed, and the blankets rustled. Still no answer. Eragon crept into the room and pressed the door shut behind him. For a moment there was only darkness, and then he cast a tiny sphere of light into the air. It was faint, but at least it was possible. "Murtagh."

Again the blankets rustled, and Murtagh's head popped up. One half of his hair stuck up in a spike, and he blinked several times while trying to adjust to the intrusion. Then, true to character, Murtagh pushed himself up with one arm and asked, "Are you all right?"

Eragon smiled. Roran would have said the same thing. It was a trait of elder brothers, apparently. He shuffled across the floor and sat on the side of the bed. Murtagh stared at him, waiting for an explanation.

"I just wanted to tell you," began Eragon, and then he swallowed a lump in his throat. "I very much enjoyed growing up in Carvahall."

Murtagh continued to stare, and an awkward amount of silence passed between them. "All right…?"

Eragon ruffled the hair on the back of his head, heat rushing to his cheeks. Not the best conversation starter, but he was tired, too. He frowned at the floor and scrunched his face to one side. At long last, he said, "You and I are brothers, but we know very little about each other prior to when we first met. I thought I might tell you some things."

Murtagh sat up, smoothing back his hair with one hand. His expression was passive, and his eyelids hung from exhaustion. Despite his lack of enthusiasm, his words were soft. "I know of where you grew up, about your family… I think I know of your past quite well."

Leaning back on both hands, Eragon crossed his ankles in front of him. "You know  _of_  where I grew up,  _of_  my family… but you don't know them." Turning and folding one leg on the bed, he faced Murtagh and smiled. "You don't know Garrow… or Marian. Garrow was as much your uncle as he was mine… and Marian your aunt as she was mine. Roran is your cousin as much as mine. My family is yours."

A strange expression washed over Murtagh's face then, and it was difficult to read in the dark. His eyes were sad, perhaps a bit empty deep down, and he smiled so slight but so warm. He held his gaze and did not look away. Murtagh said, "No, they aren't. They never were and never will be. But it's all right." He meant every word.

Eragon's chest ached. It was not a surprise, nothing like this ever was, but it hurt in a strange sort of way when Murtagh said it straight. With Garrow and Marian, it made sense. They were gone, and he would never meet them and know the amazing people that they were. However, Murtagh had already decided he had no place with any of them, even Roran who lived. Even their mother who lived.

Murtagh kept up his smile. "Go get some rest. We have work to do tomorrow."

With a tiny nod, Eragon rose and padded over to the door, and Murtagh lay down again, pulling the blanket up to his neck. Eragon set his hand on the door before stopping, and then he smoothed back his disheveled hair. Inhaling a deep breath and steeling himself, he turned and tiptoed back to the bed. Eragon did not sit—he lay down on the side of the bed with his back to Murtagh.

The bed shifted as Murtagh propped himself up again. Eragon ignored him, ignored the hairs on his neck standing up, and ignored the glare his sibling was likely giving him. Instead, he made himself comfortable by folding an arm under his head in the absence of a pillow.

"Marian was kind. I think you would have liked her. I remember her singing to me, and even when I think of it now, all of my worries melt away," Eragon said. The bed shifted one way and then another as quite possibly Murtagh was looking for a way out. Eragon kept right on going. "Our meals were always simple, but I remember sitting down together as a family and eating when Garrow came in from the field. Roran used to make me eat his vegetables until Uncle caught him and scolded him harshly."

Eragon smiled at the memory. Suddenly overflowing with warmth and affection, he went on to tell Murtagh everything about growing up on the farm with Marian for as long as he had her, with Garrow, and with Roran. Somewhere during his monologue, Murtagh lay down. Perhaps he had chosen to ignore him and had gone to sleep. Yet Eragon kept on by describing Roran's courting of Katrina, Brom's whimsical tales as Carvahall's storyteller, and of his own adventures in the Spine. Of his joys and sorrows, of his triumphs and hardships.

Eventually, Eragon's words slurred together as exhaustion and a flood of emotions got the better of him, and so he allowed his mind to share everything instead. To Murtagh, and only to Murtagh, he sent an open invitation to all of his innermost thoughts. His first success at hunting. His first and terribly painful flight with Saphira. His several embarrassing blunders with Arya. The time Brom gave him Zar'roc, the time he taught him how to read, and the time they drank too much together. And also how Eragon relished those memories now. Eragon shared it all.

Maybe it was wrong. Maybe it was too painful for someone who had long since determined they did not have a family and never would. But Murtagh  _was_  his family, and Eragon wanted him to know it.

And as Eragon dumped all of his memories, good and bad, into the silent dark space between them, a quiet mind touched his, still and unobtrusive. It was not Saphira. Muddled thoughts passed from Eragon into the void, and he began to drift to sleep. His eyelids fluttered as a blanket settled over him, and then Eragon fell asleep.


	45. Eyes of Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos~ And thanks for coming along on this adventure with me~

Freezing rain poured from swirling, pitch black clouds. Lightning ripped through the heavens like flashing whips. Even though it was afternoon, the never-ending storm turned the world dark as if a moonless, starless night.

Eragon squinted. Lightning lit the sky, the earth, and the sea and revealed an island just off the coast from Aroughs. It was a small and inconsequential patch of land covered in slight mountains, smaller hills, and a few rocky cliffs. Like everything else within the storm, it was nothing but dead earth and layers of ice. The mountains and hills were sloshing piles of mud.

Murtagh and Thorn circled the island of Parlim once ahead of them, and then Thorn returned and glided at Saphira's side.

_I don't sense anything out of the ordinary,_  Murtagh said.  _I'm going to land. Stay clear of the island in case it's a trap._

_Be careful,_  replied Eragon.

Thorn veered towards the island and descended upon it. Wind howled and lightning flashed, but otherwise their departure was uneventful.

_Perhaps their human eyes have been playing tricks on them,_  commented Saphira as she circled the island again.  _The spirit may have left the island long ago._

_Maybe_. But Eragon disagreed. His stomach had been churning like the wild ocean waves ever since they departed Aroughs earlier in the day.

A while passed, and Saphira did another full loop around the island.

_Nothing is here,_  Murtagh confirmed from the ground.  _Aside from the storm._

_So this is just a natural effect left behind by the spirits?_  Eragon winced at a bolt of lightning that spread through the clouds right over their heads. Even with magic protecting them, it was disconcerting. Thunder rolled over them and shook them to the bone.  _Same as the snow and the changing weather patterns around Alagaësia?_

_Probably. Unfortunately for the people of Aroughs, I'm afraid,_ said Murtagh.

Saphira circled the island one last time. Another web of lightning shot across the sky. Beneath them, the water rose with brilliant white peaks that then curled over to create stark black shadows. It was both mesmerizing and painful to look at. And then the shadows shifted together into one massive blur.

Eragon tilted his head. Another flash of lightning lit the sea, and beneath the surface, a whirling body of darkness stirred. Something so vast that it stretched from one side of the island to the other. Eragon's heart dropped into his stomach when glowing white eyes opened in the deep, and each eye was half the size of the island.

Eragon screamed in mind and voice with all of his strength, "Murtagh!"

Then the surface of the sea split wide open, and a creature made of shifting darkness exploded from out of the waves and sailed over the island. Its body was larger than Helgrind, round as the Menoa Tree, and each of its wings was as long as the island. It eclipsed Parlim in its entirety and crashed upon it with its full weight. The island split in half, and enormous waves crashed over it.

Then the creature, with its twisted and contorted body of writhing shadows, settled upon what remained of the island's tallest mountain peak. Its snake-like tail lashed the surface of the water and sent tidal wave upon tidal wave in all directions. It unleashed a scream that shred a layer of clouds and jolted Saphira's wings and body like piercing physical weapons.

A sliver of darkness ripped through the air near Saphira, and Thorn tumbled through it with Murtagh barely clinging to one strap of the saddle and dangling at his side. Murtagh climbed into the seat and stared, his mouth gaping.

_You said it wasn't here,_  Eragon whispered to Murtagh in mind.

A shiver ran between them that originated from Murtagh.  _It isn't._

The dark spirit stretched wide its enormous and jagged beak, and a pit of darkness hung in its throat. It bellowed with a voice both high and low, bone trembling and ear splitting, like a thousand human screams. Eragon clasped his head and curled over, and Saphira toppled out of the air. A protective sphere of light engulfed them and drowned out the noise, and across from them, Murtagh had a hand extended.

In a matter of seconds, the sphere of light rippled, and layer by layer, it fell apart into a mist. Illuminated by the ceaseless lightning, the clouds sank into a funnel and engulfed the spirit, Parlim Island crumbled bit by bit to dust, and the waves reached high and then vanished. In every direction, everything fell apart. Even the wards protecting them flickered, and pieces fell. Rain sprayed Eragon's neck, and he shuddered.

_They keep getting bigger,_  Eragon murmured, gasping as cold air stabbed his lungs like needles.

_Everything is dead._  Murtagh was staring not at the monster but at the waves.  _The ocean… it's dead._

Eragon shivered, and Saphira right along with him. Warming spells failed as wards failed. The magic protecting them vanished.

_Can you stop it?_  Eragon asked, gritting his teeth to keep them from chattering.

_I can't! It isn't here!_  snapped Murtagh, and his mental voice shook.

Thorn zipped left and right while Murtagh focused on the dark creature, his eyes sharp. Parlim would have vanished beneath the sea if not for the waves that dissolved with it. The creature screamed again, and Murtagh's barriers fell. Magic failed. Cold wind and rain pelted their skin and clothes and ripped at their billowing cloaks. Both Eragon and Murtagh unraveled and let their cloaks fly away.

It happened so fast, and between flashes of lightning, Eragon missed it. Murtagh's head had turned behind them. His eyes went wide. Then he screamed in mind and voice, "Saphira! Move!" Power flowed through Murtagh's words. Magic.

Eragon whipped around in the saddle as Saphira curled in her wings and plummeted. White fangs caged Eragon in, and then the world turned to shifting darkness for a blink. Then suddenly, he and Saphira were toppling through the air near the water, and Saphira wailed and struggled to catch herself in a vortex of wind. Pain radiated from Eragon's lower back, and he curled over in the saddle and let out a cry.

Thunder boomed but could not drown out its roar—a dragon's roar, familiar, deep, and terrifying. Lightning ignited the air. His black scales reflected the light like faultless mirrors. His icy blue eyes glowed and then flashed pure white. Shruikan gnashed his fangs and then jerked his head, tossing up and devouring several feet of Saphira's tail.

Tears filled Eragon's eyes but were lost in the pouring rain. He could not breathe.

_I am all right, little one,_  Saphira whispered to him, though her words trembled. Unhindered pain flooded between them.  _Be on your guard!_

Shruikan roared again and then veered, aiming for Eragon and Saphira. Darkness swirled around his body that gushed to him from the spirit upon Parlim Island. The entire world around them fell apart and became a part of him. Then the mighty dragon opened wide his maw, and swirling blue fire dripped off his tongue. Rain could not douse its explosive heat as the flames shot into the air.

Saphira dipped low and spun over the surface of the water, narrowly evading the blast. Shruikan fell upon them from out of the flames, his claws wrapping around them in a blink. Eragon only had the chance to let out a gasp and shout a word of magic—magic that did nothing—and then a black wall spread in front of them and swallowed Shruikan whole. Another rift opened across the island, and the dragon reappeared, barking in rage.

Murtagh sat with one hand gripping a white spike for stability while extending the other hand in use of magic. Lights wound around him, and the dark spirit and Shruikan together began to fall apart. Shruikan traversed the entirety of the island with a single flap of his enormous wings, and then the dark dragon and menacing spirit roared together in unison. Darkness crumbled away, fading.

Then a bolt of red lightning lanced upwards from the island's remains and hit Murtagh square in the chest. Lights shattered, wards fell, and Murtagh toppled out of the saddle and rolled off Thorn's back.

"Murtagh!" shouted Eragon.

Saphira moved, and Thorn roared and dove after his Rider. Shruikan plummeted after them with claws out and maw twisted in a snarl.

_I'm fine,_  called out Murtagh from somewhere, but it was a lie. Despite his attempts, pain rippled across their momentary connection.

Thorn grazed the water, twisted himself around, and then shot upwards again with wild eyes and mouth gaping. He tucked his wings and ducked under Shruikan's mouth, and then he caught the massive dragon's foreleg in his fangs and yanked him sideways as he sped past. Saphira tackled Shruikan and latched all four paws on his back, digging her claws between his armor-like scales. Eragon drew Brisingr.

Yet they held Shruikan for only seconds. The massive dragon caught Thorn with his other paw and swatted him aside, and then Shruikan flipped over and simply dropped back first towards the crashing waves and jagged rocks that stuck out of the sinking water. Saphira slipped out from underneath him before being crushed.

On the remains of Parlim, the dark spirit stood watch over them all with its empty, flashing white eyes. In its broad shadow, red lights shot from each side of the island and clashed in the middle in a fiery blast. A boom sent waves rolling away from the land in every direction. Lightning rippled across the sky and revealed not one person on the ground but two. Murtagh and a man with striking crimson hair. Their blades shone as they met.

_Eragon,_  Murtagh said, and his voice was strained.  _I'm counting on you._

_Wh—_  Eragon's connection with Murtagh was severed, and hundreds of bolts of red lightning tore up the island.

The dark spirit roared, and Eragon covered one ear and screamed through gritted teeth. Blood dripped onto his palm.

Within the darkness, brighter than the lightning, brighter than the spirit's blazing white eyes, appeared four orbs of light that rose from the ground and circled Eragon. Spirits. Colors rippled through them. They touched his chest, and he inhaled sharply as they vanished. Strength like hundreds of Eldunarí poured into him and steadied his muscles and cleared his mind. Brisingr's blue blade was sheathed in white.

Saphira did an abrupt loop in the air. Shruikan shot underneath her and snapped at what was left of her tail, and when he missed, he rolled over and pressed his whole weight over her. Thorn smashed into his head at the last moment, claws embedded, and they fell together.

_I need to get close,_  Eragon said, his grip tight on Brisingr.  _Saphira!_

_Hold on,_  she replied.

Saphira dropped out from underneath Shruikan and zipped across the water. Thorn remained planted on the black dragon's head with all claws dug deep until Shruikan dove for the edge of the island, prepared to crush them both against solid rock. Thorn jumped off and was carried away in an updraft. Snapping at his tail, Shruikan pursued him.

So Thorn would play the distraction. Saphira followed in Shruikan's wake and crept across his spiny back until she was just over his neck. He turned his head at the last second but a moment too late, and she dropped and planted her claws deep. As Shruikan spun over in the air, Thorn whirled around and hit him in the throat, latching on as Saphira did. The pair dug into Shruikan's scales, ripped black shards away from his body, until they reached bare and bleeding flesh.

Shruikan dove for the island, unleashing a hideous roar, and the dark spirit echoed him with the screams of thousands of voices.

Time slowed. Streaks of lightning froze in the clouds. Rain hung in the air. Then all of a sudden, the ocean lifted off the rocky surface of the earth and scattered across the sky in enormous shifting globs. Jagged stones remained where once had been ocean waves. Time moved again. Lightning blasted through floating ocean water that burst into fine droplets that fell with the rain.

Saphira released Shruikan and veered upwards, dodging floating bubbles of thick, deep water. Eragon ducked as lightning snapped into one just over their heads, and a deluge of water poured over him. His grip on Brisingr slipped, but he readjusted. Not to be deterred, Saphira swiveled through the air and then fell over Shruikan again.

Shruikan dipped into a ripple of darkness and vanished before their eyes. Snapping her fangs, Saphira spun upwards and around, searching for him amidst the floating ocean and flashing lights.

A desperate bellow rose over the constant, rolling thunder.

Then, Thorn shot like an arrow into them, slamming into Saphira's side at full speed and with his full weight. Eragon lurched sideways, and black pervaded his vision. Saphira tumbled. Shruikan shot up from beneath them but only managed to clip them with a wing. He caught Thorn in their place and crushed the crimson dragon within his powerful jaws. Hot blood splashed across Eragon's face.

"No!" Eragon screamed, and Saphira roared with him.

Despite the crushing pain in her side that radiated through her and into Eragon, Saphira darted upwards after Shruikan as he carried Thorn into the swirling clouds. Saphira stuck out her claws and ran them up the dark dragon's back, and then she planted herself squarely on his face. Clawing first his eyes and then his nostrils, she bit on his lip and jerked her head. His grip on Thorn did not weaken.

Thorn wailed between Shruikan's fangs, his body contorted. A few times he spat fire in a vain attempt to rescue himself, but the flames died in the rain and turned to minuscule clouds of smoke.

When Saphira's scratching and biting did not work, Eragon unfastened himself from the saddle. He spoke only a word of magic, and the spirits within him stirred. His own power may have been stolen or sealed, but theirs was not. He jumped with inhuman strength and speed, slipping over Saphira's head to Shruikan's, and then he planted the glowing blade of Brisingr into the dark dragon's flaring nostril.

A protective ward around Shruikan shattered, and he whipped his head aside and sent all of them flying. Eragon caught himself with magic until Saphira swept under him and he landed back on the saddle. Meanwhile, Thorn dropped and attempted to open tattered wings. Eragon spoke a word and suspended him in the air, and then Shruikan's shadow fell over them again and forced Saphira to swing aside.

_Get me to him, Saphira._ Eragon gritted his teeth, and Brisingr shook in his hand. Despite the freezing rain, his muscles burned. To the spirits sharing their magic, he said,  _Lend me your strength just one more time._

Saphira roared and circled Shruikan, slipping between his wings before sinking beneath him. The two dragons twisted around each other, trying to snare the other with claws and fangs, and then Saphira turned her wings and paused midair, allowing Shruikan to bolt ahead of her. Then she sailed high, tucked down her wings, and dropped like a stone.

Shruikan met her with a blast of fire, but she ducked underneath it and slipped around his tail. She sank under his belly and dodged his claws, then whirled over the top of him again. Around and around she went, and Shruikan twisted and turned, snapping his fangs at her, clawing at the air in a vain attempt to catch her. In contests of speed and flexibility, Saphira would always win. When she continued twisting around him, always just out of his reach, Shruikan gnashed his teeth and ignited the air with brief explosions of fire.

Without slowing, Saphira circled his neck, allowing her claws to graze the flesh she and Thorn had uncovered, and then she whirled around his snout until he straightened and lunged at her with maw wide. Again she slipped under him and looped around his head before shooting upwards and then dropping down again.

Eragon braced himself with one foot planted on the seat of the saddle, Brisingr tight in his grasp.

Saphira swooped towards Shruikan with a roar, and he turned at the last instant to sink his teeth into her. Eragon jumped straight into his gaping mouth, and enormous white fangs closed in around him. Darkness devoured him.

Then a tear in space spit him out again on the opposite side of Shruikan's head, and Eragon thrust the shining blade of Brisingr into the dragon's white eye. It planted deep. A burst of black dust shot from the eye, and Shruikan unleashed a piercing screech.

Eragon ripped the blade free and fell through the air, drained of his strength. Saphira glided underneath him, and he whispered one last desperate word of magic to ease himself onto her back. Then she put distance between herself and Shruikan as he thrashed in the air.

Shruikan's wings froze as his back arched, and then he dropped towards the bare ocean floor. Yet before he reached the ground, his body fell away into a mist, one chunk after another. The darkness shifted through the air into a single, gushing stream that flowed into the dark spirit perched on Parlim Island.

The spirit wagged its tongue at Eragon and Saphira, its enormous eyes flashing, and its body expanded and pressed the island further down. Unfurling its enormous wings, it screamed into the storm, and dozens of bolts of lightning dropped and shattered the earth as if by its call. Rocks went flying, and more floating balls of water burst on impact. Everything that had been suspended in time trickled away into streams of darkness that the spirit absorbed into itself. Ocean water, clouds, stone, and even rain. Everything became a part of it.

_Thorn!_  Eragon called out for the dragon.

Saphira sank towards where he had fallen, dodging flying stones and bolts of lightning. Thorn hung limp in the air exactly where Eragon had left him. Eragon grappled at the magic again, dizzy though he was, and carried him to the ground. Everything spun circles, and Eragon clasped his head.

His hand and his arm turned to dust. Brisingr clattered on the stone floor. Saphira and Thorn faded as well, and their lost parts swirled towards the dark spirit as it screamed. Eragon stumbled, staring at his arm as it vanished before his eyes. Using his remaining hand, he touched the place where his arm should have been. Only empty space remained. Nevertheless, he took up Brisingr once again.

Then Thorn turned despite his broken and fading body and stomped across the ground towards the crumbling island. He roared and spit fire that vanished as quickly as he released it. Red lightning flashed around the dark spirit looming on its high post, and then an explosion followed that sent one part of the island crumbling down.

Murtagh's faint voice reached Eragon's mind. During their brief connection, a flood of suffering washed over Eragon, both pain and heart-wrenching, crushing sorrow. All Murtagh could say was,  _I need help._

Saphira heard it, too. She snarled and bent down. Eragon stumbled to her side and sheathed Brisingr only long enough to hoist himself into the saddle. Her wings were fading, but Saphira spread them anyway and beat against the tingling air. It took time and effort, but she got off the ground. Speed was no longer within her, but she moved nonetheless.

And Thorn, despite his broken wings and fading legs, crawled up the rocky edges of Parlim Island. When his claws failed him, he used his fangs. Little by little he rose.

Together they went. Towards Murtagh.


	46. Tornac

"Give up, Murtagh," said the Shade in Tornac's voice, his words full of feigned compassion. Even as he spoke, the silver blade of his sword rippled with red lightning.

Murtagh gritted his teeth. In one hand he held Zar'roc and the other he extended towards the open ocean. With his mind he fastened the world together. The dark spirit tore apart what remained of the land and sea, and Murtagh had caught all of the broken pieces and held them in place. The ocean hung in the air like enormous, frozen raindrops suspended on strings. Chunks of stone and dust littered the air. Strings of lightning wrapped through the clouds like permanent glowing vines. Everything was frozen, trapped in time, under his authority.

Pain repeatedly stabbed through his head like searing hot daggers, and his vision darkened. Yet even so, he reached for the dark spirit with his faltering strength and unraveled one thread at a time. Now that Shruikan was gone, the spirit had returned to itself in a real and tangible way—a way he could touch and manipulate. But as he moved his focus to the dark spirit, the world crumbled again. His mind bounced back and forth, and each shift in focus crushed him.

It was more difficult now with only one spirit.

One of his feet slipped in the mud, and he stepped backwards into a wide stance. Sweat drenched him along with the freezing rain, and for the life of him, Murtagh could not catch his breath.

"Is it truly worth all this?" asked the Shade, and again he spoke with tenderness. "You refuse your father who desires to have you at his side, yet you sacrifice yourself for a world that wants you dead." His eyes had the illusion of softening, but they were still very much cruel and hollow. "What you are doing is madness, Murtagh. Look at yourself."

Murtagh did, but only for a second. His clothing was torn and plastered to his skin by rain and blood. Several gashes covered his arms and legs where the Shade had managed to strike him. He was shaking as his strength failed. Lifting his gaze first to the Shade and then to the spirit looming over him, Murtagh went right back to work stripping the spirit of its enslavement to malice.

"Fool," said the Shade, and though he took on his own voice that echoed with a hundred different human voices all at one time, it still carried the weight of compassion. "You truly are a pitiable fool."

The Shade slashed his sword in Murtagh's direction, and a snake of lightning shot across the space between them and exploded at Murtagh's feet. Murtagh jumped backwards and yanked a wall of stone out of the ground to defend. Stone and lightning spilled everywhere and rained over him. Mindful of his holds on the land and sea, on the dark spirit tearing the world apart, he formed a sphere of red light in his palm and launched it through the smoke at the Shade. Red light and red lightning ignited between them and blew a crater in the island.

Another jolt of pain stabbed through Murtagh's head, and he stumbled. The dark spirit roared and pressed on with its attack, taking apart the world piece by piece, until Murtagh dug deep into it once again, stripping it of its malady.

"Give up!" the Shade shouted, and red lightning swirled around him in a raging storm. "You have nothing to gain by doing this and everything to lose. Surrender, and surely your father will return this human to you."

Murtagh tried to blink the spots from his vision, but it did not help. He turned Zar'roc in his hand and slid one foot forward. "Tornac would never forgive me."

"You will never win." The Shade spun his sword with elegance and finesse. All of Tornac's skills were now his. "You are stretched far too thin."

"Then go ahead and kill me," snapped Murtagh, and he lunged across the ground.

Murtagh swung Zar'roc in short, rapid bursts, and the Shade answered with his own blade of silver. Sparks splattered the ground as they clashed. Red lightning rippled between their swords, and Murtagh jumped back when the first jolt hit his hand. In return he launched another sphere of explosive red energy, and the Shade cast a wave of lightning upon him. Murtagh ran straight through it, took the hit and let his twisting red magic take the brunt of the attack, and then he sailed out of the ensuing explosion and cloud of smoke and swung his blade at the Shade's head.

Meanwhile, the dark spirit wormed its way out of his grip. Water evaporated and swirled in the air around it, and rock and mud vanished from beneath their feet. Murtagh caught it and held it again, ducking under the Shade's sword, and then unfastened the few threads that he could given the time that he had. The Shade swept his blade at him again. Murtagh answered with his sword, time after time, until his fingers, hand, and arm were numb. Even after, he kept swinging.

"Give up!" yelled the Shade, and his attacks quickened, his blade flashing with red lightning. Sparks sailed over Murtagh's head as he feinted under a strike and retaliated. The Shade hit Zar'roc aside. "It is not worth all this!"

"To me, it is," Murtagh murmured, and he spun his sword in a wide arc.

Red lightning deflected his blade, and then the Shade's silver sword slid up Zar'roc and jerked it from his hand. Murtagh tilted and spoke a word of magic, but the spell died on his lips as the Shade thrust his sword through his side just above his hip. The blade was cold as ice. Murtagh exhaled a staggered breath and stumbled backwards. The Shade followed, pushing his weight against him until Murtagh fell to the ground. Stepping a heavy boot on Murtagh's shoulder, the Shade pressed the sword through Murtagh and deep into the muddy ground, pinning him down.

His mind clouded by pain, Murtagh continued to lose his grip on the dark spirit and the world as it fell apart. Everything in the sky above was a swirling mess of shadows. The Shade leaned over him, jabbing the sword deeper into him and shifting it left and right.

Pain was constant. Always.

Murtagh gritted his teeth and willed each breath in and out as steady as he could. Again he grappled at the dark spirit's threads, and it screamed into the darkness. Lightning flickered around its head and silhouetted its enormous body.

"You are a fool, Murtagh," said the Shade, and he turned the sword in Murtagh's side and sent shivers of pain up and down his spine. "Has this world not already shown you enough? Surrender and death are your only options. You fight in vain." The sword twisted again. The Shade grinned, his eyes flashing. "Even now, you fail. You lost this battle before it began." Then the Shade pressed a finger to Tornac's sunken cheek. "Because of  _him_."

At least as the Shade spun the sword in his flesh, Murtagh was able to focus on pulling the dark spirit's threads and retying them, one after another. Too many tangled webs existed, and his mind darkened with each additional pull. The world faded.

"This one was special. That is why we enslaved him." The Shade leaned over Murtagh, and his sword bore his weight. "You could never hurt him… and so you will never kill me."

The ground slipped away beneath Murtagh. High overhead, the dark spirit roared. Lightning zapped across the tunnel of clouds over their heads and revealed shapes in the dark. Everything went cold and numb.

"You're right. I can't kill you," Murtagh murmured. Then he met eyes with the Shade, with what remained of Tornac. "I am not a Shadeslayer. But  _he_  is."

Blue flashed in the dark, and then Brisingr plunged into the Shade's back and cut straight through his chest, piercing his heart. Eragon fell out of the air and struck, and Saphira wavered past them before crashing into the ground nearby. The Shade's eyes bulged and his face twisted in a terrible way, and then he shrieked with the sound of hundreds of human screams. Eragon withdrew Brisingr, and the Shade staggered backwards with the retreating blade. His body crumpled over—Tornac's body bent in excruciating pain—and then the Shade shattered into a mist that coalesced into the whirling form of a human-like dark spirit.

Murtagh's vision went blurry. He did not need his eyes. With his mind, he grappled at the magic around both spirits, pulling the malice out of them thread by thread. Their shrieks shook the earth. And as their memories flowed into him, Murtagh screamed, too. The sword in his side was gone. He rolled in the mud and buried his face, covering his head with both hands.

A hundred years heaped upon another hundred years. Galbatorix laughed and tortured him, tortured others, coerced an entire Empire to submit. Dragons died. Riders perished. Hope was dashed to pieces. One hundred years of suffering pressed upon him in a single day, and each memory entwined itself with his own until he could not tell them apart.

Murtagh kept screaming. Galbatorix had killed himself over it. It took everything in Murtagh not to do the same. Perhaps he should.

"Murtagh."

A familiar voice. The howling wind and pouring rain had ceased, and only silence remained. Murtagh lifted his head. Perfect darkness surrounded him. Rising, he turned his hand over in the air. No blood, no mud, and he wore sleek crimson and black garments fit for nobility. He had worn something similar on his initial flight from Urû'baen.

"It seems twice now I leave you with unfortunate memories."

Murtagh turned on his heels. In the darkness with him was Tornac. His mentor rested a hand on the silver sword at his hip. His wavy brown hair settled on his shoulders, framing his long face. His beard was trimmed and neat across his strong jaw. Light and life filled his eyes, and his lips tugged into a faint smile that carved wrinkles on his face. Just as the day they fled Urû'baen together.

Tears flooded Murtagh's eyes, and he took one clumsy step forward before his legs refused to carry his weight. Hitting his knees on an invisible floor, he buried his face in his hands. Through gritted teeth, he murmured, "I'm sorry. Even after death you suffer because of me."

"The blame is not yours to carry," said Tornac, his words gentle but stern. "Nor has it ever been." Footsteps echoed in the empty space like heavy boots across marble floors in a vast hall. Tornac knelt before Murtagh. "I don't have long now. My body is gone, and soon my mind will follow. The spirits can only give so much." Tornac's firm hand grasped his shoulder and then gripped his face, lifting his chin. "Look at me, Murtagh."

With bleary eyes, Murtagh met his gaze. "I wanted to save you."

"It was an illusion and never a possibility." Tornac dropped his hand again to Murtagh's shoulder and held him there. "The spirit destroyed my body the moment it took it. My mind went nearly as quickly."

"You fought it," whispered Murtagh. "In the castle and beyond Farthen Dûr… You…"

"Only because the spirit wanted freedom too, though it did not know how to reach it," Tornac said. "There is nothing you could have done differently. Now I am free, and the spirit is as well. You saved us both."

Murtagh shook his head and clenched his teeth. It was not an acceptable answer. It was not the answer he wanted.

When his gaze fell to the floor, Tornac caught his face again and lifted it, clasping his chin in his calloused hand. "Now it is your turn." His brow wrinkled and his eyes burned with fiery resolve. "It is time you released what is destroying you."

Shaking his head, Murtagh tried to drop his gaze again. "I don't know how."

Tornac shook him until he lifted his eyes again, and his mentor held his face. "You have done it all along, one spirit after another. They could not stop drowning until they shared their sorrow with you. Only then were they free. You must go and do the same."

"I can't," said Murtagh in a hushed tone, and cold tears rolled down his face.

"You must."

"I can't!" he shouted. Murtagh shook his head from Tornac's grip and dropped his chin to his chest. Both hands he pressed to the floor for stability. "You know I can't. You know how hard it is for me. You are the only one who ever heard me."

"Murtagh, you must." Tornac took both his shoulders and gave him a shake. "You must, and quickly, or this misery will destroy you long before any spirit ever does." Pulling Murtagh's head up again, he cupped his face in both hands and held him straight. "I am not the only one who will hear you and understand."

Murtagh started to shake his head but could not because Tornac held it. Tears continued to fall. It was already hopeless. All he had to do was get through a few more spirits. A few more battles. Then he could disappear and be forgotten. Nothing else mattered.

As if hearing his thoughts, and perhaps he did because they were together in Murtagh's mind, Tornac squeezed his face. His mentor's expression contorted into a fierce frown. "Murtagh! Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Murtagh murmured. He trembled under Tornac's hands, each breath labored and shallow.

"Don't you lie to me," said Tornac. "Do you understand?"

Murtagh shook his head again, and then he sobbed. "I should have died instead of you."

A sharp exhale escaped Tornac's parted lips. Yet before he could utter another word, he pulled his hand from Murtagh's head and blinked at his fingers. His limb faded, translucent, as if made of nothing but light. Despite his best efforts, Murtagh could not withhold his pathetic sobs.

Tornac slipped one arm around Murtagh's shoulders and pulled him close, and then he engulfed him with both arms in a tight embrace. Murtagh broke down and cried on his shoulder like a child, and he clung to him even as he faded away.

"I am proud of you, Murtagh," Tornac told him, his warm breath rustling Murtagh's hair. "As I always have been. So many expectations I had for you, and you surpassed every one." Then he smoothed Murtagh's hair before clasping at the base of his neck. "You are my pride."

Weeping, Murtagh said, "Why could they not give you back to me?" It was not fair. It never was. Fate hated him since the day he was born. Pain upon pain and sorrow upon sorrow, he could not take any more.

"Look at me," said Tornac, and he pushed him back. His body faded and was nothing more than colored fog held together in the shape of a man. "Look at me before I go. I want to see your face." Murtagh obliged and kept his head up despite the sniveling mess that he was. Tornac held his cheek one last time and wiped aside tears with his thumb. "Murtagh, you need to let go because I need you to live. He cannot claim you now, not after everything." Then he grasped Murtagh's face in both hands, and Tornac's eyes shone. "Galbatorix cannot have you. You cannot let him win."

Murtagh shivered. Tornac had died to help him escape from Galbatorix. Death now under the weight of Galbatorix's memory would dishonor that sacrifice. Time and again, Murtagh failed Tornac. Crushing pain gripped his chest.

"Murtagh," Tornac said sternly, and he did not let him go. One last time, their eyes met. Tornac spoke with resolve but also compassion. "Please let go." Then he ran his hand over Murtagh's head, and his fingers disappeared mid-stroke. Affection poured into his words, and Tornac smiled as he faded away. "My child, freedom has always been my wish for you. Please… you must let it go."

And then he was gone. Murtagh extended a hand into empty space. No voice, no warmth, no presence of mind, only silent emptiness. He curled over and wrapped his arms around himself, shuddering, and then the nightmares reached him again, one after another. Galbatorix. Torture. Death. Suffering. Hatred upon hatred. He pressed his forehead to the dark ground and covered his head with both hands, and then he wept.

Drowning. He was absolutely drowning, and there was no hope left.


	47. The Pact

Memories poured into Eragon from the Shade as it dissolved, and he staggered backwards as it hit him all at once. Brisingr fell to the ground. Tears welled up in his eyes.

Tornac. His name had been Tornac. He had been a knight of the Empire and famed master of the sword, among the best in Galbatorix's court. He had also been Murtagh's instructor, his mentor, his guardian, and his friend. Tornac had abandoned everything in Urû'baen to escape with him, and he shielded Murtagh's escape by taking a dagger to the back. Through Tornac's memories, through the lingering touch of his mind as it faded, Eragon was overcome by profound love for Murtagh—the love of a father for his child. Tornac's love for Murtagh.

Dark spirits vanished, and light spread high and low. The black wall of clouds overhead shattered and gave way to the warm glow of sunset. Water returned to the ocean, and the gentle waves shone gold. The island mended itself, one rocky cliff at a time, and grass, flowers, and trees curled out of the earth. Injuries healed. Saphira's tail reappeared and Thorn's wings mended. Everything returned to how it should have been.

Yet Murtagh kept his head on the ground and smashed his fist into the grass, and then he screamed. Eragon's heart wrenched in his chest. And his brother kept screaming, beating the ground and cursing a world that persisted in breaking him apart piece by piece. Tears ran freely down Eragon's face when Murtagh hauled himself off the ground and staggered on clumsy legs.

"I didn't…" said Eragon, but his voice faded. He had not known. "I…"

Murtagh stumbled past him and went towards the cliff overlooking the sea. On the way, he plucked Zar'roc off the ground and dragged it to the edge. Then, in one swift and decided movement, Murtagh flung the crimson blade over the cliff. The sword flashed like fire in the fading sunlight as it spun to the sea. As he threw it, Murtagh yelled, and then he toppled backwards and fell to the ground. Sitting with knees partially bent, he buried his face in his hands.

Eragon took a step after him but hesitated. Behind them, in the shadows of overgrown trees with vibrant green foliage, were their dragons. Thorn lay with his head on the ground, and every part of him pressed into the earth under a terrible weight.

Saphira rested her neck over Thorn's, her head over his. She blinked at Eragon.  _It is deep sorrow of the heart._

Eragon's shoulders fell, and he wiped the tears off his face. They kept falling anyway. Taking slow, uncertain steps, he stopped behind Murtagh and stared at his brother's trembling back. Words were not sufficient. Nothing would be. Eragon lowered himself to the ground and eased his back to Murtagh's. Nothing was sufficient, but Eragon was there.

Taking a deep breath, Eragon extended his mind to Murtagh with only the slightest touch, and then he retreated but left his mental barriers down. Time after time Eragon had found shelter from his nightmares in Murtagh's head. If Murtagh had nightmares from which he needed to flee, then perhaps he could find shelter with Eragon. Eragon did not expect a response to his open invitation, but he offered it up regardless.

It was small at first, just a passing touch that Eragon barely noticed. Then Murtagh's mind reached his own with such trepidation that Eragon shuddered down his spine and a cold sweat broke out upon his brow. Familiar pangs of shame and self-loathing curled over him like the first day he woke up with Murtagh in the Spine.

Buried under all of those emotions were memories. A child beaten by his father and abandoned by his mother. A boy brought up in the royal court but treated like an outcast and a tool. Then memories poured into Eragon like a flood. Galbatorix's manipulations and Murtagh's refusal to have any part in it. The subsequent escape that cost Tornac his life and made Murtagh a fugitive, and everywhere he went, people scorned him. His capture under Farthen Dûr, his torment at the hands of the Twins, and then the torture Galbatorix subjected him and Thorn to until they bent to his will. A year enslaved by a man that he hated, doing things that he hated, hurting people he wanted to help.

It became a part of Eragon as if he had lived it himself, and tears poured down his face. Everything that Murtagh hated—everything that shamed him about himself—was laid bare. Gnawing pain gripped Eragon's heart, and his stomach churned. He brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. Murtagh shook at his back.

Still more memories came. Murtagh's travels across Alagaësia in search of Eragon, his first heart-breaking meeting with their mother, and his first encounter with Morzan. Rejection after rejection. Hurt after hurt. After a while it stole the air from Eragon's lungs.

Murtagh shared with him an entire lifetime of being unwanted.

Then Eragon put his hand to his head and wept as Galbatorix's memories rolled into him, too. All along, the spirits gained freedom only by dumping their sorrow on Murtagh. He bore the weight so they could be free. Even in Tronjheim when he thought Thorn dead, Murtagh had made a conscious choice to take their suffering rather than destroy them because he understood them and because no one had done the same for him.

Twenty-one years of memories crossed from Murtagh to Eragon along with a hundred more from Galbatorix. And they wept.

Night fell upon them like a thief. The sun vanished beyond the horizon, and stars crept into the sky. Gentle wind off the ocean rustled the leaves of the trees, and waves lapped against the rocks far beneath them. Insects and frogs sang a quiet melody in the forest. A few fireflies flitted around them, and they left streaks of light in the air wherever they went. Not fireflies—spirits.

Even after the memories ceased and the flood of emotions ran dry, Eragon sat without moving. His heavy eyelids fluttered, but he would not sleep. He simply breathed, and Murtagh breathed, and neither said or did anything else. A faint connection lingered between their minds, and neither did anything to break it.

Light crawled over the horizon some time later and painted the clouds in bright hues of pink and orange. Shining white rays reached across the sky and devoured the stars. Eragon lifted his chin off his knees. Somehow the night had passed without him realizing.

Murtagh straightened but kept his back against Eragon's. His voice was shaky and quiet when he finally spoke. "You don't have to stay here."

Eragon shifted, and then he leaned back so that his head rested on Murtagh's. "I don't have anywhere else to be."

At his back, Murtagh quivered and then sank with the exhale of a long breath.

Eragon stretched out his legs and leaned his head back on Murtagh's shoulder. Overhead, bright cerulean and violet washed across the sky. A few bold stars continued to blaze in the increasing daylight.

A tiny smile crept to Eragon's lips. Nudging Murtagh's back with his shoulder, he turned only slightly in his direction. "Do you want me to nestle you?"

Murtagh's shoulders fell abruptly. His elder brother shook his head and huffed. "Thorn!"

In the forest, Thorn sat up in a flash and blinked, and then he snorted a tiny puff of fire out of his nose. Saphira hummed, her eyes shining.

With an exasperated sigh, Murtagh flopped back against Eragon. Then a second later, he also turned until the sides of their shoulders touched. Murtagh shrugged and reached out his arms and said, "I suppose if you are offering—"

Eragon punched him in the shoulder, and Murtagh laughed. They leaned back against each other again, resting their heads on each other's shoulders. Vibrant colors spread across the clouds and filled the world with light.

Murtagh tipped his head only a hint in Eragon's direction. Speaking barely above a whisper, he said, "Thank you."

"What for?"

A pause followed before Murtagh answered. "For staying."

Eragon folded his arms over his chest and stared at the radiant heavens, and the colors blurred as tears stung his eyes. Murtagh had expected another rejection. It was all he knew and was all he believed he deserved. At one time Eragon had fed into that belief as well. Eragon winced at the dull ache in his chest and tugged the collar of his shirt down. It was hard to breathe.

A moment of silence passed over them, and Eragon steadied his breath and gathered himself.

"Make a pact with me," Eragon said.

Murtagh shifted. "What?"

Eragon rose from the ground and met Murtagh's gaze. Resolutely, he said, "Make a pact with me."

Murtagh rose slowly and with a wince, and the growing light revealed his sunken eyes and pale cheeks. Nevertheless, he held his head high and his shoulders straight. His eyes were a stormy mess of emotions, and he opened his mouth but did not make a sound.

"May I have your dagger?" Eragon asked as he reached for the silver weapon attached to Murtagh's belt.

Murtagh blinked at his extended hand and then at the dagger in question. Finally, he unfastened the weapon and set it in Eragon's open hand. Eragon shifted the black grip into his left hand and cut a long gash across his right palm and across his gedwëy ignasia. Blood pooled over the glowing mark.

"Eragon!" Murtagh let out an audible gasp, his eyes wide.

"Right here and now. Let's make a pact." Eragon showed his hand.

Murtagh blinked at it, and his shoulders fell. A sad smile crossed his lips, and his eyes were so soft. "You don't want to do that. My blood is tainted."

"Then share it with me," said Eragon, and he swallowed a lump in his throat. Murtagh's eyes went wide again as he spoke. "Give it to me, and we will bear it together for the rest of our lives." Then he turned the dagger over in his hand and offered the grip to Murtagh, and at the same time he offered his bleeding hand.

Murtagh stared at one and then the other. With a hesitant and shaky hand, he took the dagger. He searched Eragon's eyes for something—denial, anything—but Eragon gave him nothing. He locked eyes with his elder brother without wavering, without hesitation, and without a doubt. Murtagh turned the dagger and sliced his palm across his gedwëy ignasia, and he shifted the blood in his hand. Then, after a long moment, he offered his hand to Eragon.

Eragon did not hesitate. He clasped Murtagh's hand with his own, palm to palm, blood to blood, and gedwëy ignasia to gedwëy ignasia.

"I make a pact with you, Brother," Eragon started, and his grip remained tight. "I swear to you that I will always stand by your side. Even if the world should turn against you, I never will. I will always guard your back and provide a shoulder to lean on if you have need. And when the weight is too great to bear, I will carry your burdens with you. Now until death, this is my pledge to you." Then Eragon repeated his words in the ancient language. Last of all, he said, " _Vel eïnradhin iet ai Shur'tugal_." On my word as a Rider.

Murtagh's eyes shone. He spoke barely above a whisper, and he struggled on each word. "I'm afraid I have nothing of worth to offer you." His gaze dropped to their joined hands.

Blood dripped into a slight puddle between them. Then at last their eyes met again.

Murtagh lifted his head, and his grip on Eragon's hand tightened. Quiet at first, he said, "I make a pact with you, Brother." Then his strength grew, and a fire burned in his dark eyes. "I swear to you that I will be loyal to you. I will be your sword and your shield. My strength is yours. And nothing, be it spirit or flesh, will reach you without having gone through me first. Now until death, this is my pledge to you." A smile spread across his face, and he repeated his vow in the ancient language. Then he said, " _Vel eïnradhin iet ai Shur'tugal_."

Eragon smiled. It was a promise he did not doubt, for Murtagh had proven it true time and again. Vows made, bound by magic and blood, they allowed their hands to separate. Blood swirled across Eragon's hand and trickled down his wrist. Then he curled his fingers over the wound and allowed the blood to settle before sealing the gash with magic.

A strange and intimate connection lingered between them. So intimate, in fact, that Murtagh's exhaustion suddenly bore upon Eragon with enough weight to bow his head. Through everything, their mental connection from earlier had not been broken.

Murtagh stared at his mended hand, his eyes wet and brow furrowed. In the growing sunlight, his face was increasingly pale. Dull pain stretched between their mingled minds until Eragon's muscles and joints ached. Throbbing pain in his head blurred his vision and chills crept up his spine until bumps spread across his skin. Quietly he closed the connection.

"We should return to Ilirea," Eragon said. "You have a high fever, and you're almost out of medicine."

"I actually finished it off already." Murtagh passed him a sideways glance along with a halfhearted, lopsided grin. His eyelids were so heavy. "Before we came here. I tried to prevent the inevitable."

Eragon's shoulders fell. "Let's go back." Then he turned away and aimed for Saphira.

Murtagh did not follow, and Eragon was halfway to Saphira before he spoke again. He was so quiet that Eragon barely heard him. "I release you."

Pausing, Eragon faced him again. "What?"

"I release you from your oath to me," said Murtagh. It was possibly a result of the fever, but his eyes maintained their glossy shine. Eragon opened his mouth to refuse him, but Murtagh continued, "Your oath of secrecy. I no longer hold you to it." Then he cleared the oath with finality in the ancient language, breaking its hold on Eragon.

Eragon's lips parted, but he could find no appropriate response.

Murtagh smiled and stared at the ground. Then he sighed with just a hint of a growl. "I better find my sword." Rubbing the back of his head, he ambled over to the cliff and took a seat, dangling his legs over the edge.

Eragon glanced at the dragons and then joined Murtagh at the cliff. He sat on the ground beside his brother, hanging his legs over the rocky ledge. The sky was then a brilliant blue, and the waves shone like a bed of crystals.

Eragon had to bite his lower lip before he could speak, withholding a smile. "You could have thrown a rock instead."

"If you had been nearby, I would have thrown  _you._ " Murtagh shot him a pointed look.

Eragon laughed. Then they sat again in silence together, and neither made any effort to search for Zar'roc.

Murtagh scratched his cheek and leaned forward, staring straight down at the rocky spikes beneath them, and then he fiddled with the dagger he had reattached to his belt. "You know, normal brothers go hunting or fishing together. I thought that might be nice. Yet here we are."

"This is like fishing," Eragon replied, and then he exhaled a laugh. Raising an eyebrow, he asked, "Besides, what about us do you think is normal?"

Murtagh grew quiet, and his eyes ran over Eragon from top to bottom. Finally, he shrugged and leaned back on both hands. "I suppose your face. At present, it's particularly average. And occasionally your hair—"

Eragon punched him in the leg. Murtagh jumped but laughed. It was a genuine laugh, one the likes of which Eragon had not heard in a long while. Quiet settled over them again.

"First one to find it wins," said Murtagh casually, and he sharpened his eyes on the water.

"I'm not competing with you. You have several overpowered spirits in your head." Eragon rocked his legs back and forth, thumping the heels of his boots on the rocky cliff.

Murtagh blinked at him. "Four of those spirits are still in  _your_  head."

Oh. Eragon turned at once and focused his gaze on the water, searching past the waves, yards down, and to the rocky ocean floor.

"Wh—" Murtagh jumped beside him. Then at once his sibling joined him in the hunt.

Perhaps they did not have the usual upbringing of siblings or the typical experiences of hunting or fishing. But they had this, and it was enough.


	48. Return to Ilirea

On their journey to Ilirea the next couple of days, Murtagh was a useless lump, and he acknowledged it openly to his companions. If a spirit attacked, he would sit idly by and let it destroy them. Thorn demanded he sleep, and so he did. Then, upon landing in the capital, Murtagh slipped out of the saddle and landed face first in a pile of snow, and there he remained until someone hauled him out of it. He was getting really good at his dramatic entrances.

Everything after that was a blur.

When next he awoke, a thick blanket was smothering him, but he refrained from moving it.

"We are both fine," Eragon said in an exasperated tone.

"Yes, fine," countered Brom. "Clearly." At this, Eragon sighed aloud. Brom continued, "Eragon,  _two_  spirits? Not to mention a Shade and Shruikan? It is a wonder you two survived at all!"

"But we did." Eragon was calm and quiet again.

Footsteps went back and forth across a stone floor. "Your reckless behavior will be the death of me."

Murtagh grinned. Eragon being scolded was definitely the highlight of this stop in Ilirea.

"You would have done the same thing," Eragon said.

"Perhaps, but  _I_  am not  _my_  son." Brom's pacing stopped, and his tone was gruff. "I did not return from the grave to watch you die."

Something scraped across the stone floor—probably a chair. Eragon sighed again. "I'm sorry."

Brom started pacing again. He grumbled something to himself, and then his footsteps came near to the bed. "You are not invincible. Remember that."

Water splashed, and Murtagh tried in vain to wipe the smile off his face. He was in the process of turning his face into the pillow when the blanket was swept down to his shoulders. Cold air slapped his skin and sent shivers through him.

Brom paused with a damp cloth in one hand and the blanket still in the other. Another growl escaped his throat. "And you."

Murtagh flinched at the light as it ignited another round of throbbing pain in his head. Rolling onto his back, he allowed Brom to set the cloth upon his brow. Another wave of chills followed, and his teeth chattered.

"Is this amusing to you?" Brom asked, sitting in a chair at Murtagh's bedside. He folded his arms across his chest, and his face sank into a deep frown.

"Not anymore," murmured Murtagh. His throat burned.

Across the room, Eragon shot him a sideways glance from a small table near the door, and then his younger sibling went back to writing something on a long piece of parchment. Selena basked in warm sunlight in a chair near a window. A heap of books and scrolls were scattered on the floor around her, and she had one scroll unraveled across her lap. Several other scrolls were set on Murtagh's bedside table.

Murtagh shifted in the enormous bed that quite literally devoured him. He was clean of grime, blood, and sweat and wore a thin linen undershirt and undergarments. Every inch of him hurt just as much as before, if not worse. If someone attacked, even a feeble Ra'zac, he would still be useless. As the air settled over him, he shuddered so violently that he clasped the blanket and pulled it up to his chin and held it there.

"You are just as guilty as he is, if not more so," Brom said, and he tapped his boot on the stone floor. "Let me see if I understand correctly. You sacrificed four spirits to Eragon and held the land and sea together with your mind while simultaneously resisting a malicious spirit and hostile Shade. Is that right?"

Now Murtagh was being scolded. He enjoyed that significantly less. Heat crept across his cheeks, and dizziness struck along with it. His mind was already fuzzy enough as it was.

"As I thought." Brom exhaled sharply and leaned back in his seat. He cast a stern look upon Eragon who immediately dropped his eyes to the parchment in front of him and scribbled furiously with his quill. The wrinkles on Brom's face slackened, and his eyes shifted between Murtagh and Eragon. "Do not throw your lives away. You both are so young…"

"Eragon fought the big dragon." Murtagh pointed across the room at his sibling. His arm shook in the air and he yanked it back under the blanket and tucked himself back in. "And the Shade."

Across the room, Eragon snorted and shook his head. He grabbed a mug off the table and drank.

"You  _both_  are young," said Brom, and his firm gaze landed on Murtagh. Murtagh opened his mouth to refute him, but Brom cut him off and stuck up his chin. " _You_  are a young man—"

"And you are an old man," Murtagh stated.

Eragon spit a semi-opaque liquid across the table, laughing and coughing. Selena covered her face with the scroll, and her shoulders trembled. Brom's jaw shifted from side to side.

"I thought we were exchanging facts." Murtagh pulled the blanket up to his nose.

Brom put one hand on the bed and leaned forward, his eyebrows pinched together. "You are a nuisance."

Tucking the blanket under his chin, Murtagh smiled. "And yet for some reason you persist in keeping me alive."

It was a gradual shift, but Brom's eyes brightened, and his lips curled up into a smile. His hand moved from the bed to Murtagh's chest and patted him. With a light tone, he said, "Yes. It baffles me as well."

Murtagh chuckled until he coughed, and then he broke into such a fit of coughing that tears filled his eyes and he gasped for the slightest breath. His head was pounding.

Brom kept his hand on his chest until the fit subsided. "I'll see about more medicine. What you have seems not to be working."

An appreciative smile was all Murtagh could offer as Brom patted his chest again and then rose. If circumstances had been different, he may have enjoyed bantering more with the old Rider. Eragon had a good father.

"Rest," Brom said to him as he turned and headed for the door. As he was passing by Eragon, he added, "You as well."

"Brom." Murtagh shifted under the blanket to face the door, to face Brom. His vision was nothing but a blur of colors now, but the patch of silver was unmistakable. Weak and pathetic but still with a smile, he said, "Give me my trousers."

The silver blur was shaking back and forth. A hint of amusement hung in Brom's words. "Not until your fever is gone." Then the door opened and closed, and he left.

A heavy weight fell on Murtagh. On several occasions during his stay with Galbatorix had he drank enough to become intoxicated, and the current fog over his mind was something similar to that. His senses were numb to just about everything except pain. Even every breath came with struggle and a sharp stab in each lung.

Nevertheless, he blinked until he could focus on the blur that was Eragon and then called out, "Eragon, give me your trousers."

"No." Eragon shook his head and chuckled, but he did not even stop what he was doing. He kept writing, the feather of the quill bobbing and twirling.

Murtagh turned his sights on Selena, and she uncrossed one leg and then crossed over the other.

"Absolutely not," she said, and her tone was both gentle and strict. A mother's voice. "Brom is being lenient with you. If I had my way, you would remain in bed for at least a week after your fever comes down."

It was a lost cause. Murtagh tipped his head in Eragon's direction. "Eragon." His sibling shook his head but otherwise ignored him. Stretching a trembling hand out from beneath the blanket, he flapped his fingers at Eragon. "Eragon, come here."

"You're not taking my trousers," Eragon said with a laugh. "Go to sleep."

Murtagh retracted his arm and pulled up the blanket, and his eyelids fluttered. The feather of the quill twirled and was absolutely mesmerizing. Letting out a breathless laugh, he murmured to his brother, "Your father yelled at you."

Eragon put down the quill and chuckled, turning in his seat to face Murtagh. "And he scolded you, too. Now  _go to sleep._ "

Quiet footsteps padded from the window to the bed, and then a soft and gentle hand settled over Murtagh's eyes and stole his sight from him. He turned his head, but the hand moved with him. It happened so fast. Exhaustion won the battle and sleep claimed him.

\-----

An entire week passed as such.

Murtagh slipped in and out of varying degrees of consciousness and was usually entertained by the same company. Despite several doses of medicine and several  _types_ of medicine, his fever did not come down. Seven spirits coexisted with Murtagh now, and they did nothing to aid him. In fact, it was likely they were the cause of his suffering. The strain of their substantial strength had become too much, and he was at his limit.

It was one of the few secrets he would never surrender.

Eventually Murtagh would have to get up and finish the task given to him. His condition would never improve, and so he had to make do with what little strength he had left. It would have to be enough.

During one of his more lucid moments, Murtagh awoke in the dark to a crash and several thuds. A flameless lamp shone on the table and cast an eerie glow on the ceiling. Half sprawled over the foot of the bed and fast asleep was Eragon, and he shifted in his chair at the noise. On the floor, scrambling to pick up several books and scrolls, was Nasuada.

Her braided hair cascaded over her shoulders and back, free of pins and decoration, and hid her face. Then she rose with her arms full and turned towards the bedside table. Only then did she notice him, and she froze, her dark eyes wide and eyebrows lifted high. Turning abruptly, she deposited the books and scrolls on the table and smoothed out her plain gown, standing proper.

"I apologize for my clumsiness," she whispered. "I didn't mean to wake you." Spinning on her heels, she made for the door.

"Nasuada," Murtagh called out.

She paused with her fingers hanging on the door handle, and then her hand slipped back to her side. When Nasuada faced him, Murtagh smiled. Her shoulders rose as she took a deep breath. Creeping across the floor, she sat in the chair at his beside and folded her hands over her lap.

"I tried to find material you may not have read before," she said, staring at one of the scrolls. "I know how restless you must be."

"Thanks," he replied in a soft tone.

Nasuada shifted in the chair and pressed her lips into a thin line. Then she rose and went for the door again, all the while avoiding his gaze. "I shouldn't keep you. You need your rest."

Murtagh's heart sank.

Then, halfway across the room, she stopped. "I did want to tell you…" Turning, her eyes found him at last. Words crept from her lips barely above a whisper. "Reports have reached me from all across Alagaësia. Humans, elves, and dwarves alike say much of the same. They tell tales of a man who is champion over spirits. A man they claim who has risked much to spare many."

A chill crept through Murtagh that was neither from cold nor fever.

"When I asked who this man was, most evaded my question," continued Nasuada, and she wrung her hands. "A few people even requested I pardon this man's use of magic because it was the only thing that had kept them alive." And then shadows fell over her eyes as they dropped to the floor. "They did not want me to punish his actions."

"Nasuada," Murtagh started, and he used the softest tone he could while still being heard. "I know how councils and expectations work. I don't blame you for anything. I survived, and I'm no longer a prisoner."

"You didn't deserve it." Nasuada's head fell and her voice cracked.

"Someone thought I did," he said. "Many people did."

Nasuada moved her weight back and forth while gripping the fabric of her gown in both hands. "How do you do it?" When he frowned at her and said nothing, she lifted her head again and met eyes with him. "In a world that has been so unkind to you, how have you kept your compassion?"

Murtagh stared at her for only a second, and then he burst out laughing and rubbed his tired face. "You overestimate me. Truthfully, I'm quite selfish."

"You don't seem to understand," she whispered, "the extent of the rumors about you."

Running his fingers through his hair, Murtagh sighed and then dropped his arm to his side. Nothing he had done was worthy of any sort of consideration. People certainly loved to gossip for no good reason. Even if there was a sliver of compassion in him, he could not  _truly_  claim it. By nature he was self-centered. Tornac, Thorn, even Eragon—they set him straight.

Murtagh glanced at his sleeping sibling before smiling at Nasuada. "I've simply been surrounded by the right voices, nothing more."

Nasuada's eyes glowed. The corners of her lips turned upwards, and she shifted partially away from him. At last her fingers stopped fidgeting, and she rested her arms at her sides. In a pleasant tone, she said, "I suppose I will have to find a suitable name for this champion of spirits lest I have nothing to call him. Perhaps Spiritfriend."

"Absolutely not," Murtagh snapped, and immediately he forced himself upright. Waving a finger at Eragon, he said, "He is named Shadeslayer and Kingkiller. I shall  _not_  be called Glowychampion or Friend of Shiny Things. I demand a proper name." As he spoke, her mouth opened and she brought a hand to her lips in a mild attempt to restrain a laugh. He pressed on, "How about Darkdestroyer or Lightwarrior?"

Now her attempts at restraint failed her and Nasuada laughed with mouth unconcealed. A real, deep, ringing laugh. Her eyes shone with pleasant tears.

"There." Murtagh smiled, dropping his hands onto the blanket over his lap. "I haven't heard that in a while."

When her laughter shrank to a titter, she touched the corner of her eye and then met his gaze. "Nor have I." Even as her laughter faded, her smile did not. Warmth and life returned to her unlike the troubled young woman from moments before. "I suppose I, too, should learn to surround myself with the right voices." Tipping her head, she softly asked, "Would it be a bother if I visited from time to time while you recovered?"

"You would never be a bother," he said, and he meant it. His heartbeat quickened.

Nasuada's eyes glowed with deep, inherent warmth. Opening the door just a crack, she paused to glance over her shoulder at him. "Rest well, Murtagh," she whispered, and then she slipped away and clicked the door shut behind her.

Murtagh adjusted his pillow and leaned back. At the foot of the bed, Eragon squirmed and flinched in his sleep—if in fact he was still sleeping after all that noise—and turned his head on his arms. A week had passed, and not once had Eragon slept in his own room.

Leaning across the bed, Murtagh shook his sibling's shoulder. "Go sleep in your own room."

Eragon made a few grumbling noises, shifting out of Murtagh's hand. "I'm fine where I am." His breathing leveled as he drifted back to sleep.

Murtagh sat back and left him alone. The pile of books and scrolls on his bedside table was particularly inviting, especially since his mind was rarely so clear as of late. On the table near the door was the parchment on which Eragon had been writing. Murtagh glanced at his brother and then slid out from under the covers. His knees creaked and he hobbled like an old man across the room. Shivers took him within five seconds of leaving the bed, and he snatched the parchment and scurried back under the blanket.

Straightening the parchment, Murtagh held it into the dim light. Across the top were the words 'Guide to Alagaësia.' Scrawled in ink were various facts about Alagaësia and Eragon's travels from Carvahall to Urû'baen and beyond. It was written as if to a young Rider with a newly hatched dragon. With a smile, Murtagh wriggled down into bed and read from the parchment until he fell asleep.


	49. Assault on the Capital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be traveling starting tomorrow, so here's an early update for you. Next chapter will be on Friday as usual. Thanks for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos. I appreciate you all!

A couple more days passed, and Murtagh needed to get moving. His fever was unrelenting and his strength was not coming back. Despite knowing this, despite knowing that he  _had_  to accomplish his task soon or he would perish before he could, Murtagh struggled to leave his bed. Pain, weakness, and lethargy were a dangerous combination. The haze in his mind refused to lift, as though he spent every day in a drunken stupor.

Murtagh bundled himself in a blanket and meandered the halls of the castle in an attempt to clear his head and build his strength. It did not help. The few times anyone caught him, particularly Eragon, Selena, or Brom, he was sent back to bed. They did not know the truth, and so he did not blame them. His illness was not from overuse of magic but rather a general breaking down of his very being, and no amount of rest would recover what had been lost.

It was during several of these trips of wandering the halls that he tried foraging through Eragon's and Brom's rooms to find his missing garments and weapons. Eragon found him once and scolded him. Brom found him another time and simply laughed at him. Both times he was ushered back to bed. He was either going to have to get creative or forceful if he wanted to leave the castle, and Murtagh did not particularly have the energy to do either.

Then, late one night, a hand shook his shoulder and woke him from sleep. As it always did, it took a long while for the fog to unravel from his mind enough for him to see and comprehend. The room was dark, but pale moonlight filtered in through the window. Zar'roc sat upon his bedside table and glowed in the scarce light.

Murtagh sat up immediately.

Angela stood near the bed with a bundle in her hands, and she set it on the table beside Zar'roc. Meeting eyes with Murtagh only briefly, she said, "Follow me. Quickly." Then she left the room.

Murtagh sifted through the bundle she had left and found his clothing, belt, and even the dagger he had received from Horst. Slipping out of bed, he dressed, fixed his weapons to his belt, and then stepped into the boots set by the door. Angela waited in the hallway for him, and then she walked down the corridor without ever looking back. No one else was around. Murtagh glanced left and right and then followed.

Angela moved with intention, her footsteps quick and quiet. Her cloak fluttered behind her. Never once did she offer him a glance, nor did she hesitate in her direction. The deeper into the heart of the castle they went, the quicker Murtagh's heart beat. When she opened the heavy door at the end of a long corridor, he almost did not follow her inside.

It was the room in which Nasuada had been held captive, where Galbatorix—and Murtagh—had tortured her.

Angela slipped through the door, and Murtagh followed with slight steps. Inside, Elva stood on one side of the door, and on the other side was a shaggy black cat with brilliant gold eyes.

Beyond them, the room had been dismantled. The stone slab, the chains, everything was gone. Walls had crumbled and pieces of rock littered the floor. An eerie violet glow lit the dank room. Murtagh stepped past the others and kicked at the rubble on the floor, revealing shards of violet crystals scattered beneath. Crouching, he picked one up.

"They are dead," said Angela. Her face had fallen to shadows, and for the first time, she was perfectly somber. A peculiar white glow swirled in her eyes. "Your father is killing them."

Murtagh rose with the stone still in his hand and shifted it upon his palm. It tingled.

"When our world is in chaos, the world of spirits suffers. If life in Alagaësia ceases to exist, equal amounts of spirits also perish." Angela folded her arms around herself, and her chin sank a hint. "Yet the opposite also holds true. When a spirit dies, life within our world also vanishes. Thus is the true nature of balance."

"These stones are what remain when spirits die," Murtagh murmured.

A physical manifestation of balance forever lost, a rock that was always consuming and always devouring yet never becoming whole again. It devoured magic because it truly was a void, a place in time and space where once had been life and now there was nothing.

Murtagh folded his fingers over the stone and brought it to his chest. Brushing his mind over it, he fell into a strange sort of emptiness unlike anything he had experienced even among the spirits. It held fast to him and drew him in like something drowning in a deep ocean and clawing at him in a vain effort to save itself. No emotion, no memories, only a gaping hole that filled Murtagh with a desire to live. He shuddered and withdrew.

Tugging into the world of spirits, he pulled upon the vast realm of nothing that touched back against his mind and drew several dozen spirits out into the open. Their light had nearly been snuffed out, and they were nothing more than blinking fog.

Murtagh reached out a hand and allowed a spirit to settle on his fingertips. Crushing pain in his chest stole the air from his lungs. "What has he done to you…?"

Somewhere high above them, a bell rang in the night. Spirits fled into the shadows once more. Murtagh's head snapped up, and then he dropped the small stone off his hand and sifted the rocks on the ground until he found a long, pointed gem like a glowing dagger. It would make a suitable weapon against his spirit-consumed father. Tucking it in the back of his belt, he spun and tore a gap of swirling darkness in the air.

"You must save them." Angela did not move, did not lift her head. "Or soon all spirits will fall, and our world with them."

"Who are you, really?" Murtagh asked.

Angela smiled, and that same white glow twirled in her eyes as when they first entered the room. Briefly she scanned their surroundings, and then she said, "Long ago, I was here."

A vague answer, but Murtagh did not need to know the truth. Instead, he jumped through the rift, vanishing into a black void, and then he stepped out on the outer defensive wall of Ilirea. Moonlight glared down on him, and in a high watchtower over the castle, a bell continued to ring. Shouting erupted within the capital city. Metal armor clanged on stone as knights ran through the empty streets. Murtagh turned in a half circle and faced out from the city towards the sprawling southern plains.

A dark spirit larger than the entirety of Ilirea approached from the southwest. Another of equal size came from the southeast, and the two massive creatures crawled across the plain on paws larger than Ilirea's castle and met in the middle. Their bodies mashed together like two colliding storms, twisting over each other until only one remained.

A single body arose where once had been two, and it unfurled two pairs of sharp and jagged wings that blotted out the sky. It craned its head high and opened its mangled beak, unleashing a shriek so loud and so fierce that knights crumbled to the ground. An entire wall on the west side of Ilirea fell and the bell bounced off its hook and shattered. All throughout the city, people wailed.

Then, from out of the earth came a vast army. Withered dark hands clawed out of the snow, and Ra'zac rose from the ground by the thousands. Behind them, a wall of Lethrblaka slithered from the ground and took to the sky until the entire southern horizon went black. Shrieks and roars arose from the plains, and a great clamor stirred within the city.

Murtagh straightened and his hair stood on end. Even across the wide gap, the dark spirit's electric eyes landed on him. It beckoned him, challenged him, and pleaded with him all in a single, wordless look. Then the spirit opened wide its empty, gaping mouth and howled in the night. Over Murtagh's head, the barrier around Ilirea flickered until parts of it began to fall away into a dirty fog.

Below, an army of knights, some mounted but most on foot, scrambled through the city gates to meet head on the approaching army. Burning stones were catapulted from the walls and crushed the first several rows of Ra'zac. Flaming arrows followed and decimated many others, and suddenly the plain was alight with fire. Smoke and embers twirled upwards in the still night air.

Murtagh took a deep breath to quiet his pounding heart, and then he extended one hand towards the spirit. If his count was correct, this would equal all twelve that had been taken and controlled by Galbatorix. Save the four consumed by his father, they were finally all accounted for.

Sweat dripped down his face. Two spirits had very nearly killed him the last time, and already he was on the verge of collapse. Fever clouded his vision and his thoughts. If his body and mind failed him, Eragon and the others would have to take Morzan down. Fate remained cruel as ever. After everything this agreement with the spirits would cost him, the only thing he wanted for himself was to finish Morzan with his own hands.

Yet if it could not be, it could not be. Murtagh focused his mind on the enormous swirling mass of dark spirit and tugged at the threads binding it together. Shifting them, tying them, and reworking them into something new. Darkness faded piece by piece. Memories of Galbatorix, of torture and death, flowed into him as the spirit poured out its sorrow. Muscles contracted throughout Murtagh's body, and he gritted his teeth and choked back a cry. A dark glaze covered his vision.

Then a voice arose barely above a whisper, close and kind. "Is it really worth all this?"

Threads dropped from Murtagh's grasp and fluttered on nonexistent wind. Without a thought, he spun on his heels and ripped Zar'roc from his belt, whirling the sword in a streak of glowing red. His blade met resistance, and Murtagh blinked past a crystal white sword to his father on the other side.

Morzan's lips curled into a smile. His words took a tender tone. "My son, you do not look well. Fall under my protection, and I will give you rest."

Manipulation and control. Murtagh snarled and shoved Zar'roc against his father's glowing sword, pushing both weapons aside, and then he swept his blade upwards in a flash. Countered. A swing from the right. Countered. Several successive thrusts. Countered. Morzan took a few slight steps back under the weight of Murtagh's swings, but at all times he kept one hand casually behind his back, and never once did he stop smiling. It was just another game to him.

_Murtagh,_  called out Thorn, and his mental voice was muted by distance.

Beyond the city and to the northeast, two draconic silhouettes stood against the moon. Thorn and Saphira returning from a hunt if Thorn's full belly was any indication. Murtagh had to say nothing else. When the two dragons arrived, they swept over the castle and onto the battlefield, picking off Lethrblaka that reached the city walls. Nevertheless, sharp twinges of concern hit Murtagh from Thorn.

Thorn was not the only one who noticed Murtagh's weakness.

"You are dying, Murtagh," said Morzan, slipping to one side to avoid a thrust of Zar'roc, and then he deflected several quick blows with slight twitches of his wrist. "Only I can save you now. Surrender and live."

Murtagh caught the crystal sword on Zar'roc and slipped his blade along its edge in an effort to catch the guard and rip it from Morzan's hand. His father rammed his weight against him, pressing against him and both swords, until Murtagh stumbled backwards. In a blink, he lost the ground he had gained. To Morzan, it was easy. He moved without pause, without struggle. Murtagh, on the other hand, was already drenched in sweat, and his muscles screamed. His lungs were heavy as if full of water.

With one last ferocious swing, Murtagh struck aside Morzan's sword and at the same time jumped back. Shifting the powers of the spirits in his head, Murtagh turned his mind into a sharp and pointed lance. Rapidly he plunged it into Morzan's head, struck wall after wall, and his father did not even flinch. Morzan retaliated with a weight so oppressive that Murtagh was thrown back and physically recoiled.

"How many spirits do you have now? Seven?" Morzan asked, and then he turned his head aside and raised a hand to showcase the air. Not near him but across the entire plain and all throughout Ilirea, hundreds of tiny spirits eclipsed by shadows appeared for only a second, all under his authority. "You will never defeat me now."

Growling, Murtagh summoned a spell of explosive red energy at his fingertips and launched it at Morzan, and his father responded with one larger and stronger. The explosion between them tore cracks through the wall. Murtagh lunged through the smoke and swung Zar'roc alight with fire. Morzan parried with a thrust and sidestep, and then they clashed blades several more times with neither gaining nor losing ground.

Then the broad wall on which they fought began to fade away.

Murtagh allowed only a glance. Walls, buildings, and people faded to dust and swirled towards the dark spirit as it continued its unhindered approach. Morzan would have to wait. Deflecting his father's blade, Murtagh tore a rift in the air with his mind and jumped backwards into it, and darkness swallowed him only for a second. When he popped out of the void, he stumbled onto the wall behind Morzan, and his father grinned from ear to ear.

"I am not finished with you," said Morzan, and finally he dropped his arm from behind his back.

Huffing for air, his entire body shaking, Murtagh created another tear in the air and jumped in. This one he held more firmly in mind, setting a straight course for the battlefield below and the dark spirit ripping the world apart. Weakness took his limbs as Murtagh stumbled out of the schism right back onto the wall, and pain ran from his head down to his toes. Violent tremors shook him until he nearly lost his grip on Zar'roc, and sweat stung his eyes. A firm arm wrapped around his chest and hauled him backwards until he leaned against Morzan, and his father caught his chin and forced his head straight.

"Stay and watch with me," Morzan whispered into his ear, and Murtagh could not move, could not breathe. "I insist."

Below on the battlefield, two great armies collided. Trained human soldiers, supported in the air by Thorn and Saphira, plowed through Ra'zac with little trouble. With but a single touch the Ra'zac would burst into dust. It was then Murtagh's stomach dropped and he shuddered. All of the human weapons shone with a permanent, violet glow.

Then, as the dark spirit rolled across both armies and sucked the life out of them, enormous balls of glowing violet crystals rippling with flames catapulted through the air and smashed into its head, its body, and its wings. It screamed and toppled forward, and half of its body dissolved. Sorrow cut through Murtagh's heart, and he gasped for air that would not come. Another ball of violet rock immersed in fire flew and smashed into the spirit's head, severing it.

"No!" Murtagh screamed.

Red energy burst between him and Morzan, blasting them apart, and he spun Zar'roc in the air to put distance between them. He tried once more to open a rift, but his magic failed him, and then he reached for the dark spirit in a desperate attempt to free it. Morzan jabbed his mind with such intensity that Murtagh toppled backwards and hit the wall of the adjoining watchtower. Sharp pain ripped through his head and darkness clouded his eyes. He threw up.

"Let me help you." Morzan sauntered towards him, and despite his gentle tone, he grinned like a madman. "Surrender and all of this will end."

_Thorn!_  Murtagh bellowed with his mind only to his partner. A barrage of desperate thoughts went with it.

Another catapult sent boulders flying towards the dark spirit as it thrashed on the ground while humans attacked it with glowing weapons. In answer to Murtagh's cry, Thorn and Saphira crashed into the spirit, lifted it, and carried it back across the plain—away from the people, away from the capital, away from harm.

Then Morzan stepped over Murtagh, looking down his sharp nose at him. Murtagh would not tolerate it. If he was going to die, he would die standing. Using the watchtower's wall as leverage, he forced himself to his feet and met his father face to face. Concealed by his shadow, he slipped his hand from the wall to the shining violet stone in his belt.

"Stop fighting," said Morzan, and he reached for Murtagh's neck. "You lost long before this day."

Before Morzan touched Murtagh, before Murtagh drew the stone that he intended to plunge into his father's heart, Morzan suddenly lurched forward and exhaled a choke. Protruding out of his chest, straight through his heart, was the shining violet blade of a lance. A cloud of darkness erupted from Morzan, and a ring of light swirled out from him across the ground and spread throughout the plain before vanishing. Ever so slightly, Morzan turned, peering over his shoulder.

On the other end of the lance was Brom.


	50. Defying Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting, friends~ I appreciate you all very much!!

Brom yanked back on the lance and hauled Morzan away from Murtagh. His icy eyes were sharp and narrow, his jaw clenched. In a stern tone, he said, "Murtagh, go. Free the spirit."

A terrible gleam rippled across Morzan's eyes and his thin lips curled into a cold smile. Turning, he clasped the shaft of the lance in one hand and snapped the weapon in half. Brom tossed the broken butt of the weapon over the wall and drew a silver sword with a violet edge from the sheath on his belt. Morzan faced him with the point of the lance still plunged in his heart, and he dug into his own chest and pulled on the blade with the sickening slurp of blood and twisting muscles.

Whatever his father was, it was certainly not human.

"Murtagh, go!" Brom ordered, and he allowed himself only one slight step back. Against Morzan, he would not surrender any more ground than that.

It was a death sentence. If Murtagh left, Brom would not survive. Yet across the plain, the dark spirit roared and tried again with its assault, tearing at the world, and an army of humans closed in on it. Morzan had nearly plucked the blade from his heart.

Murtagh shivered and made a split second decision. He lunged at his father with all of his weight, stabbing Zar'roc through Morzan's abdomen, and then he charged straight over the edge of the wall and took Morzan with him. Brom's eyes went wide and he shouted something as they fell. Even Morzan let out a cry. The ground rushed to meet them, but Murtagh had no intention of dying yet.

Tearing open the ground, he and his father plummeted into a void. Darkness devoured them, and then Murtagh landed in the snow between the dark spirit and the human army. Morzan was gone, and the only trace of him that remained was the blood on Zar'roc's blade. He would have to wait. A dozen more Lethrblaka burst out of the ground and shot into the sky. Thorn and Saphira took them down before they ever posed a threat to Murtagh.

On one side of Murtagh, the human army rushed towards him. The dark spirit stomped through the snow on his other side and stepped over him, wailing into the night. Its head had grown into a mangled stump, and only one wing of four remained. Its body was a third of the size it had been. Chest aching, Murtagh raised his hand to it and tugged apart the warped threads that kept it together.

A wave of pain assaulted Murtagh first. It was not the burden of sorrow but instead real, physical pain. Curling in on himself, Murtagh had to drop his arm to hold his abdomen. Then memories of Galbatorix deluged his mind. The king's cruel laughter, his subjugation of Alagaësia, his torture of Murtagh and Thorn, all of these things ran through Murtagh's mind not just once but twice.

Dropping to his knees, he covered his mouth for only a second and then vomited. Every muscle in his body burned and his pulse roared in his ears. Throbbing pain overwhelmed his head, and his vision blurred until everything was only a swirling mass of black and white. Pressing both hands against the ground in a vain effort to stabilize himself, Murtagh threw up again.

A dragon roared nearby, and two enormous crashes shook the ground. Thorn's mind wrapped around Murtagh with unrelenting strength, as if trying to hold him together, and then a pair of hands caught him and another mind touched his. Eragon's. Murtagh was barely aware of any of it.

When at last his senses returned to him, Murtagh was convulsing in Eragon's arms. Thorn was near and breathing a cloud of sulfurous air over them. It was strangely comforting. A small army of knights swarmed them. Murtagh's hands went cold as ice. Yet their weapons were not pointed at him. Rather, they were aimed at the city walls. The knights were protecting them from  _something._

_Citizens of Alagaësia,_  boomed Morzan's voice into the minds of all present. Not only so, but it was a reaching voice that stretched from one end of Alagaësia to the other and permeated the minds of all races.  _I am Morzan, and today I have become your king._

Murtagh forced himself to sit up, though Eragon kept a hand on his shoulder. Ilirea trembled at its foundation. Glowing pillars of magic hoisted the city out of the dirt. Defensive stone walls crumbled to dust, but the city itself remained intact and rose into the starry heavens. New defensive walls made purely of shifting darkness surrounded the city. Dark energy formed towers on every side of Ilirea, and reaching bridges of shifting shadows stretched from one tower to the next until the capital was a tangled mess of black structures. The city glowed with twisted black and violet energy.

Next came an image that reached the minds of all living things. Morzan stood upon the highest bridge over Ilirea and looked down upon them. His sword was sheathed and his hands were folded behind his back. At his feet, shackled by black chains of magic, were Selena and Brom, both battered but alive. Murtagh rose in an instant, and Eragon was at his side. Thorn and Saphira flanked them, snarling.

_My son Murtagh will stand at my side,_  Morzan said. In the image he spoke aloud, but his voice only reached their minds. His lips curled in a feral smile, and somehow, he looked straight through the vision and locked eyes with Murtagh.  _And in my name he will torture you, subjugate you, and enslave you._

Eragon turned his eyes to Murtagh, and Murtagh met and held his gaze. Several knights glanced at them, but their weapons did not turn.

Then Morzan drew his sword, grabbed a fistful of Brom's hair at the back of his head and yanked him backwards, placing the blade to his throat. A thin line of red trickled down Brom's neck.  _Murtagh! I am waiting!_

Eragon moved first, spinning on his heels for Saphira. Murtagh caught his arm and held him, and again their eyes met. If only for a moment, the fog over Murtagh's mind cleared, and his focus was restored. The anger, hurt, and fear on his sibling's contorted face had a strange effect on him.

Several knights turned when he spoke, for surely they heard him, but Murtagh did not care. To Eragon he said, "If I align myself with him, kill me."

A puff of air escaped Eragon's lips. His arm was shaking in Murtagh's hand. Murtagh released him and turned, taking a single step forward. Eragon let out a cry, and both Thorn and Saphira roared. It was the only reaction Murtagh allowed before he created a rift and stepped through it. Yet as he snapped it shut to keep Thorn from following, Eragon tackled him from behind and fell in with him. The darkness spit them out in a heap upon the bridge, and Morzan released Brom and faced them with a grand smile.

"And look," said Morzan with a booming and pompous voice. He spread his arms wide, and his crystal sword glinted in the moonlight. "He has even brought to me the hero of Alagaësia, destroyer of Galbatorix, and leader of the Riders!"

Fury swelled in Murtagh. He grabbed Eragon off the ground and shoved him behind him, standing in the space between him and his father. Eragon trembled in rage, and Brisingr shook in his hand. His sibling uttered a single word of magic,  _the_  Word. Nothing happened, and Morzan tipped his head. Eragon spoke several words then, anything and everything, and his spells fell harmlessly off his lips. His eyes widened, and Morzan bared his teeth in a twisted grin.

Murtagh turned. All around the city was a thin film of warped light, a powerful barrier against all sorts of magic. All magic except Morzan's, no doubt. Eragon should not have come. A familiar pang of helplessness crept over Murtagh. Memories of Thorn tortured and beaten overwhelmed his mind. It was all happening again.

Thorn and Saphira crashed into the barrier and then landed upon it over their heads, clawing at it to no avail. The light burned ever brighter. Both roared, but a strange sort of silence settled over Murtagh.

"Run," Brom said through gritted teeth, and somehow the weight of the chains kept his head down.

Selena wept at his side, but her jaw was clenched and her eyes were a swirling storm of rage. She, too, was forced low.

"On your knees, Murtagh." Morzan twirled his sword just over Brom's head. "It is the only surrender I require of you. On your knees, and I will release them. Eragon, Brom, and Selena, the happy little family. They can run along unharmed, and you will remain with me where you belong."

"Do not give him what he wants," said Brom in haste, and Morzan hit him in the back of the head with the grip of his sword. Brom flinched and lowered his head.

Eragon moved, but Murtagh stopped him with a hand at his chest.

"It seems you require more motivation." Morzan waved his hand in the air and then clenched his fingers to his palm in a tight fist.

Eragon, Brom, and Selena together exhaled a choked gasp, and Eragon clasped at his chest. In a matter of seconds, his face went pale and he staggered. Murtagh caught him and held his weight, and Eragon clawed at him while making wet, strangled noises. Brom and Selena were just the same, their faces contorted in agony.

"I have stopped their hearts," Morzan said, and he poked a finger into the gaping hole in his own chest. "On your knees, or they will die."

Murtagh could not move, could not think, and his breath caught in his throat.

Brom collapsed on the bridge, and Morzan pressed the tip of his sword to his back. "A feeble old man like Brom may suffer lasting damage if his heart does not beat soon."

It was happening again. Murtagh shivered but remained strong, kept a firm grip on Eragon and kept his brother from falling. His mind raced in a hundred different directions, and then he stopped.

"Swear to me," Murtagh murmured without breath. "Swear to me you will release them and do them no harm. They will live, and you will leave them be."

Morzan continued to wear his smile, said nothing, biding time. And then he spoke in the ancient language and said, "On your knees, and I will release them today alive and without further harm. Tomorrow there is no promise."

It was enough. Eragon was turning blue. Murtagh trembled and laid Eragon on the ground, and then he faced Morzan and lowered himself to his knees.

"Give me your sword," Morzan demanded, and Murtagh slid Zar'roc across the bridge. "Put your hands on your head."

Murtagh folded his hands over the top of his head, and in that same moment, Eragon, Brom, and Selena inhaled a strangled breath as they were released from Morzan's grasp. The chains around Brom and Selena shattered, but neither moved other than to grab at their chests as they gasped.

"Such a considerate son I have," said Morzan with a hint of spite.

He twirled his finger, and Eragon and Brom slid across the bridge and far apart from them. Murtagh could not breathe. Yet Morzan kept true to his promise and did them no harm, and Eragon was able to get back to his feet, and he tugged Brom with him.

Selena sat up, shaking her head. "Do not give in to him, Murtagh."

Morzan sheathed his sword as he crept around Murtagh. Then he placed his hands on Murtagh's shoulders, gripping tightly. Murtagh choked down bile and trembled as his father's hands next smoothed his hair at the base of his neck.

"He cannot help himself," said Morzan with laughter in his voice. And then his next words stripped Murtagh of his resolve. "Selena, my Black Hand, our son has grown too soft."

Selena set a hand on the bridge and raised her head, searching first Morzan and then Murtagh. Realization dawned in her wide eyes, and a violent tremor ran through her. Her lips parted and released a stifled breath, and then tears flooded her eyes. Her gentle features twisted and her face became as one who had lost everything.

Shaking her head, she whispered, "No."

Tears stung Murtagh's eyes, and he sealed his lips tight. Before his very eyes, she fell apart. Her head kept shaking in denial, and tears streaked her face.

"Yes," Morzan said with a hiss, and then he flicked his finger at her.

Selena was thrown across the bridge and rolled at Eragon's feet. Both Eragon and Brom pulled her up, held her, supported her, and still she wept. All the while she shook her head and wrinkled her face in agonized sorrow.

"No," she murmured, and then she screamed again and again. "No!"

Morzan smiled, for everything went exactly as he wanted. Manipulation and control. He twisted his hand, and darkness swallowed Eragon, Selena, and Brom, and all the while Selena screamed in horror at the truth. Cold streaks were left by tears on Murtagh's cheeks.

"I told you," said Morzan. "Even your own mother hates you. You belong here with me."

With another flick of Morzan's hand, Thorn and Saphira vanished, and only by a faint and lingering connection between him and Thorn did Murtagh know they were all safe on the ground with the knights. Thorn raged, and Murtagh severed their connection. Morzan's hands landed again on Murtagh's shoulders, and his touch sucked the life out of Murtagh.

"I will never swear fealty to you," Murtagh said without breath, and tears continued to fall.

"I have no need of your oaths." Morzan's grip never faltered. "You see, Murtagh, you have been utterly predictable. All I had to do was let time run its proper course." His tone shrank to a murmur. "Since the moment we were brought back to life in the desert that day… I enslaved the spirits, weak, pathetic things that they are. I took Eragon and let a spirit feed him hatred and fear. I altered Brom and Selena's memories. All to be weapons against you until that man Tornac fought back and allowed your mother and Brom to escape. In the end, none of it mattered."

More tears fell, and Murtagh exhaled through his teeth. It had all been a game.

"You could not help yourself. Across Alagaësia you went, sacrificing yourself and saving the spirits." Morzan's hand slipped from Murtagh's shoulder to his chest, and he pressed over his heart. "Now your magic is depleted and your body is broken. You could not resist me even if you tried. For you see, within this barrier, I cannot seal a spirit's magic. You simply cannot use it because you are too far dead."

Morzan continued, "The spirits knew of your weaknesses, yours and Eragon's, and showed me everything." His hand clasped the fabric over Murtagh's chest. Leaning down, his father spoke directly into his ear, his hot breath burning his cheek. "Your weakness, my pitiful, despicable son, is that you are nothing like me at all."

Murtagh choked back a sob. His father clasped his wrists and lowered his arms, and then Morzan set one hand atop Murtagh's head, digging his fingers into his scalp. Then pain ripped through Murtagh like a bolt of lightning, and he screamed and curled forward. Pain through his skin like it was being peeled off his body, pain through his muscles as they twisted and contracted against his will, pain in his lungs, heart, and stomach as they were squeezed in an invisible hand.

Pain in his head as a hundred different spirits rushed into his mind with the sound of thousands of shrieking voices. They battered through his thin defenses in less than a minute, and the few spirits with him succumbed to their raw strength. Murtagh yelled but heard nothing else, only the spirits. Pain, hatred, and sorrow devoured him—some his but most from the spirits.

It had all been a game, and Murtagh lost. Fate struck again, reliable as ever. In defiance he slammed his hands upon the bridge. Through gritted teeth, gargling on his own blood, Murtagh screamed words. Red and black flashed across his vision, but so too did a blazing light that crawled from the depths of the earth far into the heavens. A wall between them and the world. Spells of sealing and protection that neither flesh nor spirit could penetrate.

"Enough!" Morzan yelled, and his grip on Murtagh's head tightened.

More pain like boiling oil dripped over his scalp. Murtagh kept shouting. Hundreds of people he yanked out of the city with but a thought of his mind. All of the people of Ilirea, all of the civilians and knights alike, the dragons, he grabbed them all and thrust them into a void as far from there as he could. And then his barrier snuffed out his own magic as it sealed the city within a glowing shell.

Morzan hit him across the head. It was the last sensation Murtagh had before darkness swallowed him.


	51. A Rider Lost

Darkness swallowed him whole, and then Eragon rolled across solid, barren soil. His breath formed a thick fog over his face. Stars blinked down at him with dazzling brilliance, and there was peace and quiet. Then the crying and murmuring began, and he turned his head. People were everywhere. Knights in armor, civilians in nightwear, man, woman, and child. They covered their faces and wept, fell to their knees and screamed.

Reality settled over Eragon. He lay sprawled on the ground without moving, without thinking, and only stared at the vacant skies. Murtagh was gone.

A crash shook the earth. Thorn roared and Saphira echoed him, and her concern flooded into Eragon like a tidal wave. He flew upright.

Dead earth spread in every direction for as far as the eye could see save an icy mountain that towered into the heavens. Mount Arngor was painfully barren, and all of the vibrant forests upon it were nothing more than knotted lumps of frozen branches.

Apart from the people, for everyone had fled from him, Thorn spread his wings and jumped off the ground with a wild roar. Saphira tackled him with her full weight and crashed upon the ground with him. They wrestled and fought, and Thorn tore at her in a terrible rage, his eyes ablaze and fire spewing from his mouth every time he made a sound. He jumped again, and despite the harm he had caused her, Saphira fell on him and brought him down.

Familiar. It was so similar to when Oromis had died. Eragon rose, but it was all he could do.

Thorn unleashed a cry and writhed under Saphira's weight, spitting fire, digging his claws in the earth. It was agonizing, and Eragon could not move. A deep roar bellowed across the sky and sent people to their knees. Thorn slipped away from Saphira and got about ten feet off the ground, and then suddenly Fírnen hit him, too. Combining their strength, Saphira and Fírnen were able to pin Thorn down. Nevertheless he dug into the ground with all of his claws, rained fire upon the earth, and wailed.

Arya was near them and speaking, singing over them. It did not help.

Staggering, Eragon went to the dragons, sidestepping one of Thorn's wings as it slapped the ground. Around he went to Thorn's head, and a burst of flames forced him back. Thorn's eyes shot in every direction and focused on nothing. Wild, lost. Eragon stumbled back as the dragon snapped his fangs at the air and wailed into the night.

_Little one, be careful_ , said Saphira, and her mental voice shook.

A tear finally rolled down Eragon's cheek like a drop of ice, and shivers ran through him. Gritting his teeth, he stepped to Thorn and tried to catch his snout, tried to hold his jaw. Thorn thrashed and hit him hard in the chest, but Eragon caught him with both arms.

"I know!" Eragon shouted, and he held on with all of his strength. Thorn jerked his head, and Eragon moved with him. His voice cracking, he said, "Thorn, I know." More tears fell now and he did not resist them. He touched Thorn with his mind. "I know."

Thorn's ruby eyes shifted back into focus and his pupils shrank. All around he looked until he found Eragon as if for the first time. He groaned from deep in his throat and at last rested his head upon the ground. His entire body and both his wings sank with him, and Saphira and Fírnen crawled off but waited on either side of him.

Eragon ran his hand along Thorn's jaw and then pressed his forehead to the dragon's snout. His tears fell and ran down crimson scales. Thorn reached into Eragon's mind, and a flood of thoughts and feelings came with it. Eragon choked for air.

When the barrier rose—when Murtagh created the barrier—Thorn's connection with Murtagh was severed. It was not separation created by distance. It was sudden and complete.

Eragon pressed his head against Thorn and wept freely. With a sob, he said, "I know."

There they remained until the first light of dawn. When at last Eragon released Thorn and stepped back, all of his tears had dried.

"Eragon," said Arya, and she crept across the frozen ground without a sound. Her thin eyebrows were pinched together and her lips were straight and tight. Heartache shone through her eyes for him.

He shook his head. "Murtagh might still be alive." When she tipped her head and released the faintest exhale, he spoke again with more boldness. "Morzan wanted to enslave him, not kill him. And the magic that separated me and Saphira cut our bond at its deepest level. Murtagh and Thorn may be no different."

Arya shifted and folded her arms across her abdomen, and a strange light passed across her emerald eyes. "Murtagh created the barrier around Ilirea?"

"It appeared so," Eragon said, and he frowned. "Why?"

Turning, Arya searched each of the three dragons, and her expression softened as her eyes settled on Thorn. With a deep inhale, she said, "Then let us depart at once."

Thorn moaned again but rose, and his legs managed to hold his weight. Nevertheless, he could not speak. His mind was a jumbled mess of sorrow and rage. Eragon maintained their connection despite the ache in his chest that it caused. Saphira did not disagree with the arrangement.

"We go," said Eragon to Thorn, pressing his hand on the dragon's snout. "For Murtagh. If he is alive, I will find him."

Thorn did not speak, but from the depths of his soul he conveyed that he believed Eragon.

"I will gather provisions." Arya went to Fírnen without lingering, and she climbed into the saddle on his back. "I will be quick." Then she and her dragon departed as quickly as they had arrived, weaving through the sky towards Mount Arngor.

Eragon waited for them to be out of sight and then separated from Saphira and Thorn and meandered through the crowd. He did not get far before Brom caught his arm and pulled him aside. Brom's face was drawn and his lips pulled low. He had been near enough to listen in.

"If Murtagh is alive, I need to—" began Eragon in haste.

"I know," Brom said, and he squeezed Eragon's arm. "But you need to understand what you are walking into. Morzan is a formidable foe—and now with spirits, no less." Eragon could think of nothing to say. His father's grip lingered on his arm and anchored him with a strange sense of confidence. "Morzan has a weakness. A fatal flaw. Find it and exploit it."

Eragon opened his mouth to ask for elaboration, but then he stopped. He already had his answer, for Oromis had told him of Morzan's greatest flaw. "Morzan will overlook a single, crucial detail that will be his undoing."

"His strength now is vast, but you will certainly outwit him." Brom looked straight in Eragon's eyes as he clasped both of his arms tightly in his calloused hands. Then his father grabbed and held his face. "You  _must_  outwit him." Tears welled in Brom's eyes, and before any could fall, he engulfed Eragon in his arms. Barely above a whisper, he said, "Bring your brother back."

Eragon sank in Brom's arms, and all of the tension melted out of him. His heart slowed from the erratic pace it had kept since Ilirea. When at last they separated and Eragon stood straight, he managed a smile. "Thank you, Father."

Brom patted his back and then pressed him in a singular direction. Eragon took only a few steps and then halted. Selena was on the fringe of their large gathering. Her knees were drawn to her chest, her arms squeezing them, and she kept her face buried. She trembled but did not make a sound even as Eragon crouched beside her.

"Mother, I'm going," he murmured as he set a hand on her shoulder.

She raised her head. Her eyes were red and puffy, and before he could say another word, tears trickled down her cheeks. Everything Murtagh had feared was true. Eragon tugged on her hand, and his mother unraveled only long enough to wrap her arms around him instead. He held her close, and she wept on his shoulder.

Whether it was something she wanted to hear or not, Eragon said, "I will bring him home."

Selena shuddered in his arms. She spoke, and hostility tinged every word and made Eragon's hair stand on end. "Do not let him live." At first he thought her hatred was directed at Murtagh, and Eragon's stomach turned over. Then she pushed him back and held him at arm's length, and fury stirred in her eyes. "Do not let Morzan live."

Her hand touched his face, as if she did not believe he was really there, and then she turned away and curled over herself again, weeping into her arms. Eragon stood, and Brom took his place at her side.

Opposing Morzan was much the same as opposing Galbatorix. Eragon was small and insignificant compared to their foe. Yet for some reason he was not afraid. His time with the spirits was limited, but he could not bring himself to fear them, good or bad. Judging by what Murtagh had shown him, the spirits were slaves that, more than anything, wanted freedom and peace. Malice was not in their true nature. Even if Morzan controlled hundreds upon thousands of them, perhaps they could break free. Perhaps that was Morzan's overlooked detail.

Or perhaps Eragon was a fool. It did not matter now. Running a thumb across his palm, he pressed down on his gedwëy ignasia. He had sworn an oath to his brother that he intended to keep.

_Youngling,_  boomed Glaedr's voice, and Eragon faced Mount Arngor.  _Before you depart, come. We would speak with you._

_Coming,_  Eragon replied with a nod. Again he glanced at his parents. Brom met his gaze and built up Eragon's confidence with the strength in his eyes. Eragon smiled. "I will return."

"I know." Brom tipped his head and then embraced Selena.

Eragon turned away with full confidence that it would not be the last time he saw them, and then he and Saphira took to the sky. In the increasing light, the people of Ilirea began their trek towards Mount Arngor and the stronghold set upon it. It was not a suitable home for so many people, but it would provide warmth and shelter from the elements.

When they reached the stronghold, Saphira landed in the courtyard beside Fírnen. Eragon went straight to the Hall of Colors. A rainbow of lights blinked at him in the hall and painted the walls in vibrant shades. Several dozen consciousnesses touched his with vitality and ample warmth.

_We shall not go with you, for where you go we cannot follow,_  said Umaroth, his white Eldunarí glowing on a pedestal in the center of the room. It burned brighter than most.  _Yet allow us to aid you in this: your enemy truly believes the youngling is hated and forgotten._

Eragon frowned. "Then he does not expect me to come?" At this he shook his head. "Surely he must. If not for Murtagh then only to stop Morzan. Either way, he knows we will fight." When none of the Eldunarí responded, Eragon rubbed his arm and stared at the stone floor. A few shards of broken stone lingered from their previous battles. "When the barrier falls, if I perish, he will come for you. What can I do for you?"

Warmth washed over him from the Eldunarí and made his stomach flutter. It was strong and unrestrained, and despite the circumstances, he smiled because of it.

_The youngling has already protected us,_  Umaroth told him.  _Together with our strength, his protection will only fail if magic itself ceases to exist—and we along with it._

"He knew Morzan would come for you." Eragon's shoulders sank.

_It is why he refused our aid._  Umaroth touched Eragon's mind again in kindness, and in doing so he lifted his head.

_Youngling,_  called out Glaedr. His gold Eldunarí shone at the forefront of many others on the pedestal, and Eragon stepped around the room and stood before him.  _I cannot aid you in this fight, but allow me to join you._

"Why?" Again Eragon frowned, and he tipped his head. "If Morzan wants you, then—"

_Because it is right,_  Glaedr said with haste.  _Once again my strength is yours. Let us protect Alagaësia together._

Arguing with a dragon was a futile endeavor, so Eragon lifted Glaedr's Eldunarí in both hands and brought it close. Light swirled within it like a tiny, blazing sun. Raw power and warmth seeped through it, and Eragon's palms tingled.

"Thank you," he said, and then he turned to leave. Pausing in the doorway, he glanced back at the Eldunarí who always kept watch on the land and its people. He had to force out his next words. "Can you tell me… is Murtagh alive?"

Silence answered him until he trembled and bowed his head.

Glaedr finally said,  _He fell out of our reach._

It was not the answer he wanted, but it was better than them saying Murtagh had surely died. Nevertheless, Eragon's head sank again, and he could not muster the strength to lift it. He left the Hall of Colors without another word.

A tiny spark of hope was all he had left.

Eragon returned to Saphira and packed Glaedr's Eldunarí in her saddlebag. Arya came along shortly after with meager provisions, for food was hard to come by in a world where life was fading, and then they set off for the plain.

A once vibrant green landscape had been replaced by dry, cracked soil, and wind covered the land in a dirty haze. Most of the people from Ilirea had set off for Mount Arngor save a large group of knights, but Eragon did not concern himself with them. It would take weeks for them to reach Ilirea on foot and not much better on horseback. Chills shook Eragon, and he and Arya took turns casting magic for warmth.

Thorn joined them and flew at the rear. Not once did he speak.

Their long flight took them across the desert, now a rolling sea of snow. Gray clouds frequently covered the sky, but on the rare occasion the sun peeked through, the entire world was blinding. Despite the sunlight, the air chilled to the bone. It was so cold in the desert that, without magic, death would have claimed them in a matter of minutes. Their high altitude did not help, nor did the gusting winds.

Then at last the heaps of snow diminished, and on the horizon lay Ilirea. Rather, it was what Ilirea had become.

A shell of light wrapped around the entirety of the city like a glowing crystal, and weaved through it were thick webs of churning black. Darkness oozed down the sides of the barrier and crept across the ground like a growing puddle. It melted everything that it touched and sloshed like water, but its sound suddenly died as if lost in a void.

Then Thorn sailed over their heads in a flash of red and shot straight for the barrier without reservation.

Eragon's heart dropped into his stomach.  _Thorn, stop!_

At his unconscious urging, Saphira tucked her head down and propelled herself forward in a burst of speed. Arya and Fírnen were not far behind.

Thorn did not heed his call, did not hesitate, and crashed into the barrier with his full weight. Black lightning snapped across the shell and surrounded him, shattering his scales and tearing his flesh. The dragon snarled and clawed his way up the dark wall until he stood over the top of it. Darkness curled around him like enormous ocean waves. Thorn did not relent. He dug into the barrier with his front claws, ripping apart the darkness, and then he snapped down on it with his fangs and tried to wrench it apart.

All the while, the darkness grew stronger. Thorn's blood spilled over the crystal shell and vanished in swirls of black.

_Thorn!_  screamed Eragon.  _We will find another way! Stop before it kills you!_

Saphira whirled over him and caught him with her paws, yanking him off of the barrier. Black lightning shot out from it and burned her wings, forcing her back, and then she swept around and dove in from another direction. Striking Thorn with her full weight, they toppled together through the air and towards the ground.

Thorn unleashed a scream that twisted Eragon's heart in his chest and brought tears to his eyes. As they tumbled, the crimson dragon reached for the wall, roaring, and his claws dug in deep until they shattered. Saphira rolled in the air and caught him in all four paws, spreading her wings to slow his fall. Together they hit the ground with a solid thump, and Thorn turned immediately and struck the barrier with his tail. The darkness grew stronger, and blood splattered in the snow.

_Stop!_  Eragon leapt from Saphira's back and hit the ground running. He ducked under Thorn's tail and grabbed the dragon's head.  _Thorn! It isn't working, and you will break Murtagh's heart if you die!_

His words did not reach him. Thorn dug under the shell of light and dark, flicking away snow and rock, and only found another puddle of darkness that ate at him. Saphira bit Thorn's hind leg and dragged him backwards through the snow. Thorn lashed her with his tail and broke her grip and jumped at the glowing wall with fangs and broken claws bared.

_Thorn!_  cried Eragon.

Words were useless. Instead he sent a mental barrage of Murtagh's memories into Thorn, things the dragon already knew but needed to remember. Murtagh's submission to Galbatorix for Thorn, his desire to protect him above all else, how Thorn was one of the few that Murtagh would ever trust… all of this because of Murtagh's deep love for Thorn. If Thorn perished and Murtagh was alive, it would destroy him.

Thorn struck the wall and dug in his fangs until several of his teeth cracked, and then he stopped. Vines of darkness slithered over him like snakes and coated his body in black. Then, he slid to the ground and stepped back, and everything fell away from him. Eragon ran to his head at once and held his snout in both hands, and Thorn blinked at him with a cloudy and unfocused eye. Blood ran between his scales and spilled around him in the snow.

_We will find a way,_  Eragon told him in a soft tone.  _But you need to be here when he comes out._

Thorn shot a burst of fire at the barrier that fizzled out immediately, and then he rested his head. Eragon scratched the fleshy area just behind his jaw and then touched his forehead to Thorn's snout. With Glaedr's strength, he healed Thorn's wounds and restored the damage done. Saphira trudged through the snow and then flopped down behind Thorn, catching his tail between her teeth. She did not bite hard, and he did not seem bothered. There they sat.

Fírnen came around the barrier and glided over their heads. Then he wheeled around and went back the other way.

_Eragon, come,_  said Arya.

Thorn's head popped up, and then so too did Saphira's. Eragon had barely returned to the saddle before both Saphira and Thorn took to the air and circled Ilirea. Fírnen was on the ground on the northwestern edge of the city. He and Arya were not alone.

Elva and the werecat Solembum were standing far from the barrier, watching and waiting. Elva's face was tight and her eyes were narrow, and her hands were clasped into fists over the front of her long cloak. Solembum's eyes flashed a wide spectrum of colors, his tail twitching in the air behind him. If only a little, his shaggy black fur stood on end.

Standing next to the barrier, barely avoiding a puddle of dark matter on the ground, was Angela. She set her hands on her hips and then angled her body towards Eragon. Huffing through her nose, she brought her hand to her face and tapped a finger over her cheek. "What a mess."

"Do you have any idea how to get through it?" Eragon asked, and first he cast his gaze upon Angela and then Solembum.

"Flesh destroys flesh and spirit destroys spirit," murmured Angela, and she poked at the barrier with one finger. It zapped her with black lightning, and she withdrew her hand and shook smoke off her fingertip. "It is not an easy thing to undo the work of a fleshly spirit."

Eragon's shoulders fell. "What?"

Beside him, Arya shifted and crossed her arms over her abdomen, and her brow furrowed and darkened her eyes.

"Only something of flesh  _and_  spirit can undo this magic," said Angela. With a snort and a frown, she added, "Leave it to your  _brother_  to make things so difficult." Then she turned away and faced the shell of magic around Ilirea. "Troublemakers, the both of you."

Angela tugged aside her thick cloak and drew her sword Albitr, or Tinkledeath, from its scabbard. The sword was like the most finely polished crystal, like perfect glass, and had a white sheen beside the magic barrier. The faintest gasp escaped Eragon's lips. Though this sword was finer and clearer, it was reminiscent of the blade given to Orik by Gûntera. Angela weaved the blade in the air and then jabbed it straight into the barrier—and it slipped straight in up to the guard.

The wall of magic surged at the sword's point of entry, and darkness rushed from every corner of it to fill the void. Angela growled and held the sword with both hands as black lightning swirled around her and singed her hair and cloak. A few threads slapped her cheek and left bright red and puckered burns.

"Angela!" Eragon ran ahead to draw her back, but she took a step forward and pushed the blade upwards. A crack lingered as she moved the sword, but darkness swirled over it as if to close it.

"Powerful," she breathed, and she kept pushing the crystal sword through the wall.

Blood dripped off her hands and speckled the snow beneath her. The crack in the wall grew, but so too did the lightning and darkness swirling around it. Angela bit back a cry as black webs reached from the sword to her hands before crawling up her arms. She turned the sword and cut towards the ground. It was an insignificant hole that only seemed to make the rest of the magic stronger.

A powerful jolt of black energy nearly took the sword from her hand. Even so, she sank with it, cutting the wall little by little. Black swirled over her shoulders and surrounded her neck. Yet her eyes remained focused, fierce, and she gritted her teeth.

"Angela!" Eragon reached to pull her back, grabbing her shoulders.

Saphira, Thorn, and Fírnen spewed fire at the barrier and chased the darkness away. Angela kept pushing until a slit was cut through the wall about half Eragon's height, and then she lost her strength as darkness crawled across her face. A strangled breath left her throat. Still, she stood in place with her sword piercing the darkness.

It would never be enough. Tinkledeath was not enough. Orik's weapon would not be enough. Save a few weapons, all of the amethyst stones that might prove useful against this magic were sealed within Ilirea or far away in Surda. Too far, and it would take too long.

The edges of the crack rippled and then reached for each other to seal again. From the top down, the hole began to close. Thorn roared and kept pouring flames upon the wall, and again Saphira and Fírnen joined him. Darkness turned but did not break.

Eragon stepped away from Angela as the shadows moved over her, suffocating her. Her hand shook, and the rip in the wall wavered. It might be big enough if it gave just a little.

_Saphira,_  he said only to her. She closed her maw and backed away from the barrier abruptly. It was strange that his heart was not even beating fast. Even so, she whipped her head in his direction. He said,  _I'm sorry._

Saphira roared and lunged across the ground. Arya must have realized it, too. She reached out, but Eragon was already moving. He dashed towards the barrier, building just enough speed, and then he lunged out of the snow and hit the crack in the wall with his shoulder. It gave. He turned as he slipped through and kicked Angela hard in the gut. She did not make a sound as she fell away from the darkness, as Tinkledeath dropped out of the hole.

In fact, as the barrier closed in around Eragon, it looked as though Angela even smiled.


	52. Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading and commenting. I appreciate your time with this story and hope you'll enjoy it all the way to the end. Not long now!

Despite the snow that cushioned his fall, Eragon had the wind knocked out of him when he hit the ground. Beside him and over his head, the barrier surged with power, and dark energy spread over it thicker and stronger than before. Any light from the outside world was snuffed out. Ilirea was lit by walls, towers, and bridges made of churning black magic with a foul glow. Once a vibrant city, it was now nothing more than shadows.

It was quiet, like someone was covering his ears. A strange whirring sound came from the darkness as it moved and turned, but it was muffled.

Eragon shuddered as his connection with Saphira was cut. It was familiar and painful, but he had braced himself for it. Nevertheless, the emptiness lingered in his chest. He rose on shaky legs. His entire body was heavy, and even the slightest movements were difficult. On his palm, his gedwëy ignasia dulled and then vanished. All across his body, his skin crawled, ached, and then he touched one ear. Round.

" _Brisingr_ ," he said. Nothing. No fire in the air, and the sword at his hip did not ignite with raw power.

Hopefully the barrier would not just block  _his_  powers.

Eragon set off into the city. It was utterly empty. Darkness had covered everything like frost on a cold morning. Walls, houses, even what remained of trees were nothing more than shadows now. At the very least, the strange glow emitted by the dark energy lit his path to the castle.

The castle was much of the same. Shadows everywhere and little else.

Eragon reached the doors to the throne room and then stopped. Shadows covered those, too. He drew Brisingr and took a slight step back. Even then, his heartbeat was slow and steady. Holding his breath, he clicked the door, shoved his foot inside, and forced it open. Then he slipped through the crack, his sword ever ready.

The throne room was vacant and nothing but a blanket of darkness. Eragon moved on.

If somehow Morzan had escaped the barrier, Eragon had trapped himself for nothing.

He spent nearly an entire day wandering the castle from one end to the other, even the dungeon, and found nothing. At the very least, no one sprang a trap on him or attacked him by surprise. Perhaps the trap was that he was here and no one else was. Grinding his teeth, he began to hack at the shadows as he went.

Eragon climbed a winding tower and stepped onto an outer wall of the castle. Over his head was a dizzying tangle of narrow bridges and stairs made only of dark energy, and they went in all directions, from one tower to another, seemingly without purpose. The confusing array was only over the castle and reached all the way to the barrier high above it.

Attached to the wall on which Eragon stood was a flight of stairs that went up and out towards the city and then turned abruptly inward, climbing into several other stairs and bridges. Eragon prodded at the first step with the tip of his boot. It was solid, and the shadows did not shift under his weight. He stepped on the first stair and then the second. They held him, and the only change was a faint glow that erupted beneath his boot.

Eragon followed the stairs up into a knot of darkness. Steps and bridges went in every direction. He followed one and reached a dead end, then turned and followed another path. Several times he got turned around until at last he found a path that took him higher than the rest. Ilirea was nothing more than a churning blur beneath him. Just over his head was a vast platform that glowed violet, and just above it was the crystal barrier marred with black veins.

He did not expect much when he climbed the steps to the highest platform. Even so, he squeezed Brisingr and kept the sword ever ahead of him.

On the platform of shifting, twirling, glowing black was a throne of darkness, and its back reached to the edge of the barrier with three sharp peaks. Sitting upon it, with one leg crossed over the other, was Morzan. His foot bounced in the air and his head was propped in his upturned palm.

Standing at his right hand was Murtagh. Rather, what was left of Murtagh. His hair was deep red, and his skin was translucent and tight against his withered muscles. His clothing hung loose over his form. Murtagh's empty crimson eyes stared at the floor and his face was entirely without expression. He had no trace of life in him.

Eragon choked, and his heart stuttered.

Morzan raised an eyebrow at him as Eragon appeared but otherwise did not react. He turned his head and rested his arms over the throne, and his foot continued to move in the air. Finally he set his feet on the ground and leaned back.

"How did you get in here?" he asked with a sharp tinge of annoyance. "Better yet, how did you intend to leave?"

Eragon slipped his feet apart and tightened his grip on Brisingr. "I thought the barrier might fall after I killed you."

At this, Morzan chuckled and shifted in his seat, crossing his other leg. He stared into the darkness, and a dark light washed over his eyes. Then he found Eragon again. "It was a foolish thing coming here. You are nothing more than  _human._ " Then he raised his hand, and dark spirits danced across his fingertips.

Eragon's stomach sank, and sweat built up on his skin.

Morzan crushed the spirits in his hand and then leaned into his throne, his lips curling into a smile. "Fear not, son of Brom. I have no interest in harming you. You are a trivial  _thing._ " Then he propped up his head in his hand once more. His grin spread. "Though sending you back in pieces to your parents would be exquisite."

"My father found a way to defeat you when you had magic and a dragon and he did not," said Eragon not to belittle Morzan but to reassure himself. Confidence stirred in him again. This man  _always_  had a weakness. "Spirits will not save you."

Morzan's expression did not change, but more shadows fell across his eyes. Through barely parted lips, he said, "Murtagh."

At his word, the Shade of Murtagh stepped forward. Eragon retreated and gritted his teeth.

"Be gentle with him," Morzan ordered. "I do so need entertainment. And it would do no good to destroy his body lest I have nothing left to gift his father and mother." Then he leaned in his chair with a mild grin and waited for the spectacle to begin.

Murtagh drew Zar'roc from his belt, and the blade flashed as it sharpened.

It was the first time since entering the barrier that Eragon's heart raced and his breaths came in short gasps. If Murtagh had been a slave of magic, he could still communicate. He could still  _hear_  Eragon. But as a Shade, he was nothing. And there was only one way to stop a Shade. Eragon took another step back and shook his head.

This was no different than Murtagh already being dead.

Zar'roc glinted in the violet light, and then Murtagh vanished from before Eragon's eyes. A puff of wind crossed Eragon's shoulder, and so he spun with Brisingr raised. Murtagh swung Zar'roc from behind him, and he narrowly caught the blade on his own. Light flashed between them. Murtagh slid back and swung again without a moment's hesitation, and Eragon stumbled as he blocked the blow. Then another and another, each in rapid succession and with enough force to numb Eragon's arm.

Ruby light rushed over Zar'roc. Murtagh swung. Eragon slipped back in an effort to avoid the blow altogether, but the Shade was too close and too fast. Brisingr took the brunt of the strike, and a burst of red magic blew them apart. Eragon flew across the platform and hit the ground hard, rolling to a stop near the edge. He had only gotten to his knee before Murtagh landed on him again in a flash of red. The sword stopped an inch over Eragon's head.

"Too fast, Murtagh," said Morzan with a tired drawl. "Do entertain me a  _little_  longer."

Eragon had enough time to get to his feet before Murtagh struck again with a flurry of thrusts. Sidestepping, Eragon whirled around Murtagh's back and swung his sword behind him. Murtagh fell forward, sank beneath Brisingr, and then came up swinging. Zar'roc cut a deep gash through Eragon's thigh before hitting his forearm straight to the bone. It was only by sheer luck that Eragon recoiled in enough time to keep his arm from being severed.

Blood sprinkled across the platform from Eragon's wounds, and with it went his strength. Sweat plastered his hair and clothing to his skin. His lungs failed him and his heart skipped several beats at a time. His vision blurred.

The entire time, Murtagh had no reaction to anything. His hollow eyes never lifted off the ground, his lips never parted, and he never made a sound. He was already dead.

Tears blurred Eragon's vision, too.

Murtagh pushed him across the platform in a storm of swings and thrusts, and Eragon managed to counter all but a few. Thin but deep gashes covered his arms and legs, and one was cut across his left shoulder. Somehow he kept up just enough, but he had not landed a single blow. Murtagh had always been the better swordsman.

Always and to this day. Murtagh fought like  _Murtagh_ , not like a Shade.  _This was his brother._

Pivoting on his feet, Eragon slipped under Zar'roc and let it fly over his head. Pouncing off the ground, he hit Murtagh in the gut with his shoulder and threw them both across the platform. Blinding red energy flung Eragon away, and he caught the ground with his hand and bounced back to his feet. Zar'roc thrust past his head, and he twisted around it and moved to Murtagh's left.

Every swing, every thrust, every counter—every move Murtagh made was something Eragon knew. During their friendly sparring matches, during their wartime clashes, during their final duel before Galbatorix, he had seen nearly everything. Even what he had not already experienced Eragon knew from the memories Murtagh shared with him. Murtagh's training with Tornac and Galbatorix, his preferences, his strengths and weaknesses, Eragon knew it all.

And so he ducked, parried, and countered, until at last Brisingr glanced off Murtagh's arm and left the finest cut. Eragon continued to dodge, thinking not of retaliation but only of what Murtagh might do next. Every move he anticipated from deep in his heart, as if fighting his own shadow. As Zar'roc swept over his head, he stooped low and slipped under Murtagh's arm, ramming his brother in the side to knock him off balance.

A sharp point stabbed through his clothes and into his hip, and Eragon jumped back with a yelp. Tucked into Murtagh's belt was a glowing, amethyst stone, long like a knife and pointed on both ends. A trace of Eragon's blood now streaked its surface.

Eragon's momentary confusion shifted the balance once again to Murtagh. His attacks came faster and with greater force, and Eragon lost ground to him in a blink. Back across the platform they went, and Murtagh summoned a vast wall of red energy that crashed into Eragon's chest and hurled him again to the edge. Murtagh met him there, Zar'roc swinging.

Eragon got off the ground but was forced again to fling Brisingr left and right in an effort to block Murtagh's torrent of swings. Then his foot slipped over the edge of the platform and he collapsed in a heap. Zar'roc fell over him, and Eragon twisted himself aside with as much strength as he could muster with a single leg. The blade dug into the flesh of his lower back. It was cold like ice, but otherwise Eragon felt no pain. He popped back to his feet and staggered away from the edge.

Leaving trails of blood on the floor, Eragon walked a wide circle around Murtagh. His brother did not watch him and did not follow. Then Murtagh lunged across the platform and swung Zar'roc towards Eragon's side. Familiar. Eragon let it hit, let it dig through his skin and muscles. It stopped Zar'roc for only a second, and it was all he needed. He shoved Brisingr through Murtagh's abdomen.

They stood together impaled on each other's swords. Eragon pressed against Murtagh and then reached around him. All the while, Murtagh stared into the void without expression, without breath, without life. Eragon drew the glowing stone from his brother's belt, spun it on his fingertips before landing it in a solid grasp, and then he stabbed the sharpest point into Murtagh's side.

A gasp escaped Murtagh's lips, and he jerked forward and away from the stone. Darkness fell off of him like droplets of sweat and then vanished in the air. He winced and gritted his teeth, and more of his weight hit Eragon than Eragon was able to hold. They stumbled together and fell to their knees.

"M-Murtagh," whispered Eragon, and his lungs failed him. With shaking hands, he kept a grip on Brisingr still plunged through his brother's abdomen and kept the violet stone planted in Murtagh's side.

Zar'roc twisted in his side. It was a minor annoyance.

Murtagh struggled to lift his head. Gray swirled over the crimson in his eyes, and the roots of his hair faded to dark brown. The color of blood simply melted out of him.

"Eragon," Murtagh murmured without breath. His lips moved without speaking, for he had no strength. Then he met and held Eragon's gaze with eyes full of tears. "Kill me."

"No." Eragon withdrew Brisingr and dropped it on the ground, and he pulled the shining stone from Murtagh's side but kept it in hand just in case. Grappling the front of Murtagh's shirt, he shook him. "Fight it. You and the spirits… you can beat him."

Murtagh shook his head, and tears ran down his ashen face. "I don't want to hurt anyone…" Then he withdrew Zar'roc and dropped it, and he clasped Eragon's shoulder. His fingers and arm trembled violently, and several times he nearly lost his grip. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Then fight him," Eragon said, begging. His grip tightened, and the violet stone cut into his hand until blood trickled onto Murtagh's shirt.

"I can't." Murtagh shook his head, and suddenly red began to creep back through his eyes and hair. Still tears fell. "Please, Brother."

Morzan rose from the throne.

Eragon did not care. He shook Murtagh again. "Fight him!"

"Please." Murtagh broke down and wept, bowing his head. "Kill me."

"No," Eragon said, and tears rolled down his face. "I won't."

Red consumed Murtagh again. He raised his hands to Eragon's wrists, clasping them tight and pulling them back just barely. With blood-red eyes still full of tears, he looked straight at Eragon. His lips parted slightly as he exhaled a tiny breath. Then he clasped Eragon's hand in both of his own and gave a fierce jerk. The violet crystal wrapped in both of their hands cut straight through bone and into Murtagh's heart.

Shadows exploded around Murtagh like black flames, and he pulled back his shoulders and arched his back. A noise escaped his lips like hundreds of human screams.

Eragon tumbled away from him, eyes wide, mouth gaping, and lungs stripped of air. Then he screamed his brother's name louder even than the monstrous noise unleashed by Murtagh.

A pillar of darkness erupted from Murtagh and struck the barrier over their heads. The crystal shell and shifting black webs shattered on impact and rained down on them as dust. Morzan stormed across the platform, his eyes blazing. He drew his crystal sword.

Eragon should have cared, but he simply did not. He dove and caught Murtagh in his arms, toppling to the platform with him. The violet shard clattered to the floor beside them, beside their fallen swords. Morzan raised a hand, and darkness spun around him in a vortex.

Then a rainbow of colors flashed in the air and white light swallowed everything. Eragon pressed his face to Murtagh's chest and held his sibling tight as the entire world fell apart in a storm of wind and lights.

When everything finally ceased, cold water poured over Eragon's head. A clap of thunder shook him, and then its echo reverberated all around him. Eragon sat up. A dark and murky forest of bare trees surrounded him on all sides. Rain came down in sheets. Lightning spread across the sky, and rolling thunder followed it.

Murtagh lay still in his arms. His weight and muscles had returned, as had his dark hair. Eragon panted for air as he tugged down the collar of Murtagh's shirt to reveal his chest, and not even a scratch covered his skin over his heart. With a glimmer of hope, Eragon leaned his ear to Murtagh's lips and waited. Murtagh was not breathing.

"No," Eragon choked, and he straightened Murtagh's head on his arm and listened again. Still nothing. "No…" Then he surrounded Murtagh in his arms, sheltering him from the rain and cold. It did nothing to stop Eragon from shaking. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he rocked on his knees in the mud. "No." Eragon shuddered, fought a losing battle for air, and then screamed with everything left in his lungs. Curling over Murtagh, he wept.

The slightest puff of air stirred Eragon's hair, and his head snapped up. Murtagh had not moved. Even so, Eragon leaned over him again. A chilled breath tickled his ear.

"Brother," Eragon said without breath.

He drew Murtagh to his chest and cast a spell for warmth over them—and it worked. The temperature around them rose despite the freezing rain. Murtagh let out a faint, muffled noise and shivered. Eragon put his head down and wept into the tangled mess of Murtagh's hair. When he turned his face again to the air, Eragon flew upright and his eyes shot wide open.

Before them were countless blinking lights. They were frozen in the air, but their colors slowly shifted and the intensity of their light waxed and waned without reason. Spirits. On the ground, a brilliant display of lights reflected off puddles of muddy rainwater. Eragon spun on his knees, taking Murtagh with him.

Standing just behind him was an enormous and majestic creature made entirely of light. It had four wings and a sweeping tail. It was as large as Shruikan, and its form passed through the trees as if it was not really there.

Eragon recognized it from Murtagh's memories. Not only the memories he had willingly shared. No, Eragon recognized it too from the memories he had received upon killing Murtagh. Everything from the day he was born until that moment in time when the stone cut through his heart.

Eragon had so many things that he could have said, perhaps should have said. Yet as more tears spilled from his eyes and were lost to the rain, he clasped Murtagh more tightly and simply said, "You're killing him."

The great spirit responded only by lowering its head just a hint. The lesser spirits around them remained suspended where they were, still and quiet spectators of their exchange.

"It doesn't matter how this ends." Eragon's grip on Murtagh tightened. "He dies either way." Again the spirit did not respond, and Eragon restrained a sob. "He made an agreement with you to save  _me_. He surrendered his life to you to save  _mine._ " Every inch of him was numb, and the warming magic did not touch him. His voice broke as he said, "Take it back."

_It is finished,_  said the spirit, and its voice went through him like roaring thunder and the faintest whisper. It spoke both in his language and the ancient language, mingled together but still clear. It had a chilling tone, but there was something warm about it. In some tiny way, it cared.  _The exchange has been made._

"Take it back," begged Eragon through gritted teeth, and he choked back another sob. "Please." The spirit did not respond but stared at him with its eyes like hundreds of flawless crystals. Eragon's voice rose. "After everything he has suffered for you, can you not make an exception?" Still the spirit did not answer. Eragon's voice broke further, almost beyond understanding now, and he yelled, "You have to make an exception!"

_It is not in the nature of balance,_  said the spirit.

Its voice was like a warm summer breeze, but it cut Eragon like ice. Burying his face against Murtagh, he cried and screamed into his brother's shirt, "You have to make an exception!"

Everything made sense. Eragon's body shook and his fingers dug into Murtagh where he held him. Eragon cried and could not stop. Murtagh had come for him and then sacrificed his life for him. Not just his life, but his entire existence. And the part that twisted like a knife in Eragon's chest was that Murtagh had not hesitated and had not once regretted his choice. Of course Murtagh had grieved it, but he had never regretted it.

Murtagh wanted to live, but he wanted Eragon to live that much more.

Some time passed, and Eragon shed the last of his tears. Clouds moved on in the sky, and the storm gave way to starlight. Drops of rainwater dripped off the sparse pine needles over their heads. Puddles shone radiant colors from the lights of the spirits.

Eragon breathed deep to calm his nerves and quiet his racing heart. Lifting his head, he met and held the great spirit's gaze. His voice was soft but certain as he said, "Take me instead."

The spirit of balance shuddered from the top of its head to its four mighty legs, and its tail flicked in the air as if on a mighty wind. Suddenly there were many more tiny spirits around them, and they began to twist and turn in the air with glittering white tails.

"Make an agreement with me," Eragon said. "Take me in his place."

Tipping its head, the spirit drew its eye near to him.  _You do not know what you ask._

"Yes, I do," replied Eragon. "You gave Murtagh of your power and changed who he is, and now there is a void that must be filled. You need an exchange for balance, don't you?" With a nod of his head, Eragon continued, "Allow Murtagh to do what he must. Then, when things are made right, let me be the one who restores balance between our worlds."

_Already this one's life is at an end,_  said the spirit, and it leaned closer still.

"But he is alive." Eragon shifted and patted his side where no wound remained, and then he touched Murtagh's healed chest. "The living and the dead can be healed. The only thing that cannot be restored is something that is no longer. Correct? Heal Murtagh and erase me."

The spirit came close enough for Eragon to touch. Within its eye was a thousand different colors and hues, and it took his breath away.

_Your life will end when it has only just begun. Why would you ask such a thing?_  questioned the spirit with the slight tilt of its head.

Eragon did not waver and did not look away. "Because he is my brother."

A jolt of light shot through the spirit, and it stood straight and tall in a flash, as if the words had physically struck it. Ripples ran through it and shifted its form, and then it solidified again. The spirit said,  _Creature of flesh, make your oath._

Eragon spoke in the ancient language and said, "In Murtagh's place, I vow to give my life, my memory, and my existence to the spirits for the purpose of restoring balance between our worlds."

_I accept,_  replied the spirit. _The one called Murtagh will remain, and you will fill the void within my world._  Then the spirit spread its wings, and white light filled the forest.  _When order has been restored, you will cease to exist._

Eragon gave only the slightest nod, and then the spirit burst into shining white dust and vanished before his eyes. All of the other spirits stirred the air, and they weaved vibrant trails of light around him. He shifted Murtagh in his arms. Some color had finally returned to his brother's cheeks. If not for the spirits' meddling, Murtagh would have already been lost.

Leaning forward, Eragon rested his head on Murtagh. He did not cry and did not sleep but simply remembered to breathe. And everything was quiet.


	53. Mother and Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and leaving kudos. And thank you also to those who leave comments--I love hearing from you. You are ALL very much appreciated!

Murtagh opened his eyes, and stars blinked at him through a canopy of twisted branches and pine needles. Spirits swirled over his head and left shining dust in the air behind them. One landed on his nose, and through it warmth stirred in his chest. Then it flew away and twirled through branches high overhead.

At Murtagh's chest was a familiar head of brown hair. Both his and Eragon's clothes and hair stuck to their skin and dripped water into puddles on the forest floor. Blood stained their garments, but the skin underneath was unharmed. Eragon was curled over him and held him tight in both arms. Occasionally his sibling shivered, and the air was too warm for it to be from cold.

His arm was heavy like iron, but Murtagh managed to lift it and set his hand on Eragon's head. Eragon popped up in an instant with eyes wide and mouth open. Murtagh had no choice but to drop his hand back into the mud, for it took too much strength to keep it up.

A smile spread on Murtagh's lips. His voice was strained when he spoke, barely above a whisper. "I'm telling Mother," he said. "You stabbed my heart."

A strange mix of emotions passed across Eragon's face. Then the corners of his lips turned up only a little and his eyes shone. His voice cracked. "You made me."

Murtagh chuckled and then winced when pain gripped his chest. Then he laughed through gritted teeth. Vainly he tried to sit up, but his muscles gave up before he even got started. Aches and pains gnawed at his joints and deep in his bones, and the nonstop shivering suggested the presence of a high fever.

Eragon started to pull him upright. Something sharp and knotted pressed against Murtagh's back and pushed him, and then a solid wall formed behind him that held him off the ground. Behind Murtagh, roots from a tree had climbed out of the mud and formed a gnarled knot for him to lean on. Towering over them was the massive tree at the heart of Ellesméra.

"Oh," Murtagh murmured, and then he smiled. "Hello, Tree."

Glancing between him and the tree, Eragon frowned but did not ask questions. Their eyes met for a long while, and several times Eragon opened his mouth and then closed it again, as if he had something meaningful to say but could not speak it. Then at last his younger brother's face brightened. Such warmth and affection arose in Eragon's eyes that Murtagh leaned away from him.

"What?" Murtagh asked, and he frowned.

Lifting and then dropping his shoulders, Eragon sat in a puddle in front of him. "Nothing," he whispered, and his emotional tone betrayed him. "I'm just glad to be here."

"In the mud?" Murtagh tugged on the edge of Eragon's sleeve. They were both filthy. Again.

Eragon smiled but said nothing else.

A slight tug on his mind lifted Murtagh's head, and then a dragon's roar echoed through the sky. Murtagh grabbed at the roots supporting him and tried to get up, but his feet slipped in the mud and his arms and legs refused to obey him. He toppled over the tree in a pathetic heap until Eragon caught him and pulled him up, supporting his weight with an arm around his back. Eragon half dragged him through the trees until Murtagh was finally able to hobble. Sensation came back to him slowly, and it hurt.

Two dragons roared in harmony just over their heads. Affection and joy crashed over Murtagh like a tidal wave, and the sheer and overwhelming weight of it nearly knocked him off his feet. Then Thorn fell into the trees, completely disregarding the damage he caused to the forest and to himself, and landed just ahead of them. Saphira slipped in behind him with far less chaos.

Murtagh stumbled away from Eragon and made it to Thorn on his own. A jumbled mess of emotions ran between them, everything from guilt and helplessness to relief and love. Murtagh lost his balance and collapsed over Thorn's snout, resting on his dragon's head with his full weight, and he laughed until he cried. Thorn nudged him once and rested his head on the ground to keep from moving him. Together like that, they shared all of their experiences, and Murtagh was thankful Thorn was alive, that Eragon and Saphira had stopped him from harming himself in his grief.

_Are you well?_  asked Thorn, and his mental voice was heavy.

_I will be,_  Murtagh said, and he meant it.

Beyond them, Eragon and Saphira shared a reunion of their own. Then at last Eragon asked, "But why are you both here?"

_The spirits brought us,_  said Saphira, and she spoke now to everyone. It was meant for Murtagh to hear.  _They have stirred all across Alagaësia and intend to aid us in our fight._

Murtagh could not muster the strength to ask questions. Instead, he prodded at the spirits in his head. All of them were with him, nine in all, and all of them were well. When he had fallen to Morzan and cast a spell of sealing and protection, same as before, he tucked them away in hiding and out of his father's reach. They went to sleep until the spell was broken. Now they fluttered and stirred within him, like giddy little children, and he could not help but smile.

_It is because of you,_  Thorn told him in private. Murtagh could not move and did not respond, so he continued,  _To them only balance matters, but now that they have witnessed your opposition, they too want to fight. Their kind will not succumb to malice unless they have no choice._

"My father will take their choice from them," Murtagh murmured.

_And we will stop him._  Thorn snorted and tipped back his head, sliding Murtagh further up upon his brow.

"Yes." Murtagh closed his eyes, and almost immediately he began to drift to sleep.

Twigs crunched around them, and murmuring arose that Murtagh did not pay much attention to. Then Thorn leaned him back towards the ground, and Eragon caught him until his legs stopped wobbling. Murtagh scratched the back of his head and took just one step. Standing at the edge of the clearing was Brom with a mild look about him, and beside him was Selena.

Murtagh's heart caught in his throat. The incessant shivering increased tenfold and he clasped his belt to still his hands.

Selena's bloodshot eyes fell on Murtagh, and immediately her hands curled into fists. Taking only a few slight steps, she stopped at a distance and waited. Eragon kept a hand on Murtagh at first to ensure he could stand on his own and then went to Brom, and Selena bypassed him. She stopped directly in front of Murtagh, her eyes frigid, her brow furrowed deep. Her breaths came out as erratic puffs through her nose.

Murtagh opened his mouth and did not even make a sound, and then she slapped him across the face. It hardly stung and barely turned his head, but he let out a faint gasp regardless. Heat built behind his eyes as he stood straight again, and he kept his gaze on the puddles beneath them. Ice had formed elaborate patterns across the surface of the water.

"I'm sorry," he breathed. "I didn't want you to have to remember."

"You fool," she said in a hushed tone.

His head and shoulders sank. Then she caught his face in both hands and lifted it, forcing him to meet her eyes. Her lip quivered and her face contorted in a horrible way, and tears spilled down her cheeks. It was everything Murtagh had wanted to avoid. The truth had ruined her, and it could not be taken back. Tears filled his eyes, too, but he did not let them fall.

"You fool," she said again, and her voice broke. A long breath escaped her lips, and she shook her head. Every word then came with struggle. "I went back for you, Murtagh. Not for Brom, not for the Varden… I went back for you." What little remained of her strong façade shattered, and tears poured down her face. Sobbing, she said, "I could not save you from him..." Her hand brushed back his hair and stroked his face, and then she wept, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him to her. "I failed you... I am so sorry."

Words Murtagh never thought he needed to hear, but as soon as she said them, tears spilled from his eyes. His breathing labored and he shook in her arms. Her grip on him tightened, and slightly she swayed back and forth with him. Adjusting her grip and smoothing the back of his hair, she turned her face towards him.

As she spoke, her breath warmed his cheek. "I am so sorry," she whispered between sobs. Then again, drowning in sorrow, she said, "My child, I am sorry." She was shaking, too.

Murtagh finally brought his arms around her, closed his eyes, and wept. Bitterness and rage left him along with his tears. Years of not knowing, of not understanding, suddenly made clear. She had cared enough to face Morzan again for his sake. His mother had returned for him.

Together they wept until dawn flooded the sky with light. Finally Selena stepped back and only because Brom had touched her shoulder. She held Murtagh's face in both hands and brushed away his tears with her thumbs, and then she smiled.

"Now I understand," she said, her voice faint but warm, "why I have loved you so much all this time." Then she tipped her head and kissed Murtagh on the forehead before smoothing back his hair.

"I'm sorry." Murtagh's head and shoulders sank out of habit.

She caught his jaw and lifted it, shaking her head. Then she took his shoulders and held fast. "Do not  _ever_  think that you are not worth it."

Murtagh nearly broke down and wept again.

Brom spared him by putting his hand on Selena's hip and urging her away. "We should return. They need rest."

Selena nodded and wiped away lingering streaks on her cheeks, and then she went to Eragon. He was standing aside with Zar'roc and Brisingr in his hands. Murtagh frowned at the swords but did not concern himself with them.

Brom placed a hand on Murtagh's back. "Let's go," he said in a kind tone.

It was a bit of a struggle, but Murtagh managed a slight smile. "I thought you would scold me."

"Oh, I intend to," replied Brom, standing straight and tall. For a moment his face wrinkled in a frown, stern as could be, and then it softened just a bit. "When you are in bed resting where you belong."

"After you've taken my trousers?" Murtagh asked. He could not help himself.

"After I've taken your trousers to a different city so there is no hope of you finding them," Brom said with a note of irritation in his words. Even so, he pressed Murtagh forward, always with a hand at his back for support.

Murtagh chuckled and rubbed his head. "Seems fair."

They returned to Ellesméra on foot, though Eragon and Brom eventually had to bear much of Murtagh's weight. Thorn and Saphira followed but did not intervene. By the time they reached Arya and the elves, Murtagh's fever had spiked so high that Eragon and Brom were sweating simply from being near him. After an unfortunately mild bath that did nothing to ease his aches and pains, Murtagh was given a strong dose of medicine and put to bed. Thorn was somewhere above him in a space all of his own.

Sleep came and went, and despite the fever, Murtagh did not have any nightmares. Every time he awoke, a haze lingered over his mind and he ached from top to bottom. Eragon and Selena usually stayed with him, and sometimes Brom, and he was always given more medicine.

Sometime after dark, Murtagh woke. A dim, flameless lamp lit the room. Selena was sitting on a stool at his bedside, and she held one of his hands in both of her own. Her fingers traced his and ran across his calluses. Warmth spread from her to him. She stared at his hand, but her eyes were glazed over.

"Selena," he whispered. It would do no good to startle her or wake Eragon, who was fast asleep beside him.

At the sound of his voice, Selena blinked and sat up, though her grip on his hand only tightened. Her brow furrowed. "Speak with me proper, Murtagh. You need not call me by my name anymore."

Murtagh had not even realized what he said. With the faintest smile, he said, "Mother."

Her eyes brightened, and she squeezed his hand. A warm smile graced her lips, but her eyes were full of sorrow. "To think you were in front of me all this time and I never knew…"

"Morzan erased your memories." Murtagh clutched his fingers around hers. "Nothing was your fault."

At this, tears sprang again in his mother's eyes, and she dipped her head. "Again he took you from me as he has since the day you were born." Meeting his gaze, she whispered, "Tell me about it." Murtagh frowned, and she gave the saddest smile he had ever seen. "Tell me about your life… where you have been and what you have experienced, both good and bad. Share it with me. Even how the scar on your back came to be. I want to know everything."

"I will," Murtagh replied, and he meant it.

She gripped his hand again in a tight squeeze, and then her face twisted into a scowl. "Good. It is certainly overdue. I even asked Brom what he knew about you, and he made some noises and then walked away." A smile passed over her lips, but her eyes were sharp and shadowed. "You made him swear an oath of secrecy as well."

Murtagh's cheeks burned, for he had forgotten. Scratching his head with his free hand, he chuckled, "When next I see him, I will release him."

"Good." Selena's expression relaxed and her eyes softened. Again she ran her fingers across the back of his hand. With the kindest tone Murtagh had ever heard, she said, "After everything, you are so strong and so kind. I am proud of you."

"Thank you," he whispered.

Beside him, Eragon shifted on the bed. His sibling slept with his back to him but no longer bothered with minding his personal space. Eragon had half the blanket and half the pillow for himself, and he scooted back and forced Murtagh closer to the edge of the bed. Murtagh scowled at his younger brother's intrusion. Eragon's breathing had quickened.

"Brothers," said Selena with a laugh. She released Murtagh's hand and sat up on the stool, and her eyes shone. "I am so glad you found each other and share such a bond."

"I barely like him," Murtagh told her with a sharp tone that made her tip her head. "He always needs protecting, has a terrible habit of speaking annoying things,  _and_  he stabbed me in the heart."

Eragon turned abruptly on his back and with a growl said, " _You_   _made me!_ " When Murtagh smiled, his younger brother returned to his side and let out a sharp exhale.

"Go sleep in your own bed," Murtagh said in a soft tone. Truthfully, it did not bother him that Eragon was there.

"I'm fine here," murmured Eragon, and he tugged at the blanket and stole another sliver from Murtagh.

Selena's face brightened at their exchange, and her smile went straight to her eyes. "That," she said in a musical tone. "You two squabble like brothers who have been together all your lives." Then she pulled her shoulders back, folding her arms over her abdomen. "And you protect each other just the same. I am glad."

Murtagh scratched his head again. Somehow, after sharing all of their memories and thoughts, it really was as if they had been together all their lives. He was glad for it. Even if only for a brief while, he had family. Murtagh loved Eragon, and there was nothing he would not do for his brother. Even so, he did not speak, and neither did Eragon.

Selena understood them well enough without words. Leaning over the bed, she smoothed Murtagh's hair and then Eragon's. Softly she said, "But enough of this. Both of you are weary. Please rest. I will be here when you wake."

It was a promise that Murtagh wholeheartedly believed. As such, it was easy for him to close his eyes and rest his mind. His mother's hand settled on his once more, and with Eragon's warmth at his side, he fell asleep.


	54. Zar'roc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you always for your time spent here with this story and for your comments and kudos. I appreciate you all so much, and I'm so glad to have you along with me for this adventure.

Time passed, and Murtagh had no way of keeping track of it. No one told him how many days went by as he recuperated in bed, not even Thorn. Eventually his fever responded to the medicine. Though it came down, it never truly went away. He had long since made his peace with it. The elves provided exquisite garments of the finest material for him to wear, and Murtagh started wandering Ellesméra in an effort to rebuild his strength.

It was a beautiful city. Ceunon had attempted harmony between civilization and nature, but Ellesméra had perfected it. After his year with Thorn in self-exile, the relaxed atmosphere was particularly comfortable. Yet just a few weeks prior, he had been barred from entrance to the city. Murtagh did not entirely understand what had changed, but it did not bother him enough to dwell on.

Whenever he went on his leisure strolls, Eragon, Selena, or even Brom accompanied him and  _led_  him. They directed him away from certain parts of the city and never explained why. Possibly elves were there that still hated him. Twice he had tried to go off on his own, and Thorn  _and_  Saphira accompanied him like giant guards. They, too, shuffled him in particular directions. He had no interest in going to forbidden places, not really, but he occasionally strayed just to see what their reactions might be. Among the best were Thorn hooking him with his tail and carrying him away and Brom hitting him with a walking stick.

On a very rare occasion when Murtagh set off completely on his own, he stayed where he ought to. Meandering through the sleeping forest, he arrived at the enormous tree deep in the heart of the city and stood under its reaching branches. Brown pine needles blanketed the forest floor, but still the great tree retained some green covering on its branches. Sunlight filtered through the rustling pine needles and shadows danced on the ground.

"Tree," he said, and he greeted it with a nod.

Then he lowered his mind deep into the earth and found a familiar void, giving it a tiny tug. Several dozen spirits popped out of the ground and flitted through the air, swirling around him like a miniature storm. A couple spirits grazed him as they passed by, and always they shared with him warmth and joy.

Murtagh lifted his palm and allowed a spirit to land on his fingertips. "I have heard you are resisting malice now and that you are aiding us in the fight. Thank you."

_My kind seeks strength for preservation,_  said the keeper of balance from within Murtagh. Something warm lingered in its tone that had not been present before.  _Your strength has compelled my kind to act._

"I have no interest in compelling anyone to do anything." Murtagh dropped his hand away from the spirit, and then he spoke to the lights all around him. "Do what is right for your kind and mine. Our worlds are at stake."

_It is as you say,_  the keeper replied, and it guided Murtagh's eyes to the ground with a tugging thought.  _See for yourself._

It was nearly impossible to see beneath the mud and pine needles, and the sunlight covered it well, but a faint glow radiated from the ground. Murtagh kicked at the dirt and then crouched, sifting mud between his fingers. Tiny slivers of violet stone had mingled in the earth. Murtagh shuddered. As always, he blamed the fever when heat built behind his eyes.

"You're dying," he said to no single spirit but to all of them. Then he stood and dropped his hand to his side, and with a splash of magic water, he cleaned his fingers. In his feverish haze, he had failed to notice that the spirits were smaller and fainter than before. "All of you."

_As is your kind,_ the keeper said.  _Balance has already been lost, and life fades._

Murtagh shook his head and clenched his jaw. Rage clawed through his chest again, but this time it was justified and he allowed it. "What can I do?"

_See,_  replied the keeper.

It bestowed upon Murtagh thoughts and memories from the world, and as always, most were too powerful for him to understand. By sheer force of will he took hold of a few, those that the spirits deemed most worthy, and held fast to them until he  _did_  understand. And he saw Ilirea encased in violent storms of lightning and ice. Ra'zac and Lethrblaka covered the plains for miles around the city, and more slithered out of the earth.

Yet within the chaos wrought by malice, spirits of light wrapped Ilirea in a cocoon of light, and though darkness tried to breach it, it held fast against it. Then a great creature of shifting shadows burst out from within it, and it had the appearance of a Lethrblaka, a man, and a serpent. Out of the shining wall appeared also a creature not unlike the keeper of balance that shone a rainbow of colors and had a sweeping tail, and it caught the dark creature and snapped it in half. Both vanished. Then two more appeared and battled again, and the process repeated time and again in an endless cycle.

Murtagh returned to himself with fists tight at his sides and his teeth gritted. To the spirits that were  _somehow_  restraining Morzan at Ilirea, he said, "Hold on, I'm coming." Then to those around him, he asked in a raised voice that cracked in anger, "How do I stop him? How do I fix this?"

No spirits answered him, but the tree's roots shifted through the mud. Then at last a smaller root lifted, raising a violet stone out of a deep puddle. It was the very same one that had stabbed Murtagh through the heart. He accepted it with a slight frown.

By nature the stones were the absence of all things, the remnant of destroyed life in their world that had been stripped away by a spirit as it died. Yet somehow they had within them the power to erase both magic and spirits, as if stealing back what was lost in a vain attempt to live again. It was a solemn weapon, but it had already proven effective against a human bound to spirits.

Murtagh tucked it once again into his belt. "Thank you."

Then he stormed back towards the city until a root shot up and wrapped around his abdomen, hauling him backwards. He let out a gasp as it whirled him around and then released him in another direction. Murtagh stumbled and was about to share a few choice words with the invasive tree until he caught a pair of eyes on him from the shadows of the forest.

A female elf stood against a tree with her arms folded across her chest. Her face was worn and weathered, and surely she was one of the only elves in Alagaësia who showed any sign of aging at all. Her brow wrinkled as she frowned and her lips pressed into a tight line. Then she unraveled her arms and stood straight. Her almond-shaped eyes had a strange sort of wisdom and sorrow to them.

"Do you know who I am, Murtagh son of Morzan?" she asked, and none of her words were spoken with malice.

"You are… Rhunön," replied Murtagh. He recognized her not because  _he_  had met her but because Eragon had. It was strange knowing so much simply from Eragon's memories. "You are a master smith, the best in Alagaësia."

"Hm," she said. Then she turned and went through the forest, and her footsteps were light across the crunchy ground. "At least I need not introduce myself. Follow me."

Murtagh watched her go until the tree prodded his back again with a pointed root. Whipping around, he scowled and swatted at it. The root dodged his hand and burrowed back in the frosted earth. Murtagh growled to himself and then followed the elf.

Rhunön led him down a path to her workshop and then stepped aside. Standing just beyond the entrance to her shop was Sandstorm, very much alive and well.

"You found him!" Murtagh sprinted to the horse, clasping its muzzle and holding it straight. Sandstorm snorted and nuzzled his face and then nibbled at his hair. "You look well, friend." The horse yanked on his hair next, and Murtagh yelped and had to step back. Nevertheless, his smile did not fade.

"He returned to us of his own volition," Rhunön said as she entered her workshop. "Perhaps it was the work of spirits." She lifted something from just inside the door before stepping back outside. In her hands was the deep red scabbard of Zar'roc. "I thought you might want this returned to you."

"Y-yes," said Murtagh, rather short of breath. He had thought the scabbard lost forever. Receiving it from her hands, he turned it over several times. Not a scratch or dent was on it. "Thank you."

Rhunön eyed him and then her gaze fell to Zar'roc at his hip. "May I see Zar'roc?"

Murtagh tipped his head but did not ask questions. He drew the sword from his belt and released it from the spell that dulled it and then offered it to her with care. As she inspected it with a sharp eye, he fastened the scabbard to his belt. It would be nice to carry the blade without having to use magic.

"This blade rightfully bears the name Misery," she said with a laden tone. Red flashed off Zar'roc's edges as she turned it in a ray of sunlight.

"Yes, it does." Murtagh's shoulders fell.

It was misplaced, but she bore some of the blame for the blades she created that had been used to slaughter the Riders and their dragons. The heaviness of guilt and sorrow hung in her eyes and on her words. Yet as she turned the sword, a gleam of light leapt to her eyes, and her shoulders lifted.

"This sword was not made for you," she said. "Do you want me to rework it to better suit your needs?"

"It suits my needs well enough as is." Then Murtagh smiled, and his hand landed on the sheath at his hip. "It is a magnificent blade, and I would have no other."

It was slight, but an exhale passed from Rhunön's lips that very well could have been a laugh. Holding the sword straight up in the air, she eyed her own reflection. Wrinkles creased her face as her lips turned upwards.

"It seems the true name of this sword has changed," said Rhunön, and the shine in her eyes increased. "No longer does it inflict misery. Instead, it bears the weight of the people's misery upon itself." Her gaze shifted to Murtagh. "As does the one who wields it."

Murtagh's hands fell limp at his sides. Words escaped him.

"Wield it with honor, young Rider." Returning the sword to him, she dipped her head as if in a display of respect. "You are worthy of this blade."

"Thank you," Murtagh whispered. It was all the breath he could muster.

Rhunön smiled and went back into her workshop without another word.

Murtagh slipped Zar'roc into its rightful place in its scabbard. Still attached to his belt was the dagger gifted to him by Horst. He tapped it with his fingernail, and it emanated a beautiful ring. Even if compared to all of the weapons in Galbatorix's possession save only the stolen swords of Riders, Horst's dagger was still the most beautiful. Murtagh drew it and flipped it in his hand.

"I have a favor to ask, if you will hear it," he said, and Rhunön reappeared from her dwelling. Taking the purple stone out of his belt, he displayed both it and the dagger to her. "Would you be able to enhance this blade with this stone?"

Rhunön approached without a word, taking the rock in her hand first and turning it in the light. Her brow furrowed again. Then she took the dagger and gave it the same scrutiny. Finally her gaze fell on Murtagh. "What do you intend to do with it?"

"I will use it to set the spirits free," he told her without hesitation.

"Hm." Rhunön brought both items to herself. "I will return the dagger to you before you leave. It should not take long." Turning, she returned to her workshop and paid him no more mind.

Murtagh returned to Sandstorm and stroked the horse on the nose. "Will you look after him?"

"I will find a suitable home for him," she answered without coming back outside.

Murtagh excused himself without another word.


	55. Islingr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for taking the time to read, to kudos, and to comment. It's always nice to have someone else along for the adventure. You are very much appreciated!

Several more days had passed, and Murtagh was ready to leave. His fever and pain were managed and his head was clear. Precisely  _because_  he was feeling better, Eragon and company kept him under heavier guard and refused to allow him to go anywhere. Thorn also refused to leave Ellesméra with him and did not give a reason. It was wearing on Murtagh's nerves.

Now Eragon dragged him through the city and would not tell him why, and for some reason everyone was gone. Across platforms and bridges they went, to the ground and through the trees, in perpetual silence.

"Where are we going?" Murtagh asked with a sigh. He considered flicking Eragon's ear to punish him for his secrecy, but he had already tried once and failed. Eragon had dodged his attack and slapped his hand.

"Just follow me," said Eragon as he did every time Murtagh asked.

Again in silence they continued on until they reached the southern edge of the city. A vast clearing like a training ground awaited them, and within were all of Ellesméra's people and many, many more. Murtagh stopped in the shadows of the trees even as Eragon continued without him.

Thorn, Saphira, and Fírnen were to his right. Selena and Brom stood with them, and both greeted him with a warm smile. Roran was beside Selena with his hammer in hand and a mild expression on his face. Eragon went and joined them. Lurking in the shadows beyond them was Angela, and she grinned and sat upon a fallen tree. With her were her two peculiar companions Elva and the shaggy werecat. Solembum?

Elves guarded the perimeter with fierce expressions, squared shoulders, and weapons at the ready. This was a formal meeting, whatever it was. Within the clearing, gathered on the dry and crinkled grass, were representatives of all the major people groups in Alagaësia. On the far left were about ten Urgals, including a Kull who stood ahead of them as their leader. Orik and about fifteen dwarves were beside them, then Orrin and about twenty humans, then Arya and a few other elves.

Standing ahead of them all was Nasuada, and her golden crown glinted in the sunlight as she faced him. Her gown was of vibrant green, and a crimson cloak was swirled over her shoulders. As ever, she stood tall and proud, and her eyes met his without hesitation. Her smile was equally as quick, and it was genuine.

"Murtagh," she said, and she gave a tiny nod.

Murtagh approached her. Everyone was staring  _at him_. Whatever the solemn purpose of this meeting was, he was at the center of it. Yet Nasuada's smile was too warm for it to cause him any concern. When he stopped directly in front of her, she folded her hands over her gown and inhaled such a breath that her shoulders rose.

"Murtagh son of Morzan," Nasuada began, and she took the tone of high nobility. "It seems we have done you a great disservice."

"Oh?" was all he bothered to respond with.

Behind Nasuada, everyone from the least to the greatest stood tall.

"Never once have you acted of your own volition in hostility against us," she said, and her words were gentle but still loud enough for all to hear. "Yet we have openly treated you with contempt. For that, please accept our sincerest apologies."

Nasuada's face softened and her eyes shone. Immediately she bowed her head and shifted her expression again to something more severe for the occasion. "While we acted in ignorance, you sacrificed yourself for Alagaësia, from the forests of Du Weldenvarden, to the depths of Farthen Dûr, to the shining seas of Surda. Your efforts have not gone unnoticed, and we—"

"Stop," Murtagh said, and she straightened and blinked, her eyebrows arching. With as kind a tone as he could muster, he spoke not just to her but to all present. "Save your words, for I have no need of them." Taking a deep breath to slow his heartbeat before it had a chance to quicken, he continued, "You did not act in ignorance or contempt."

Murtagh scanned the different groups gathered behind Nasuada as he continued, "King Hrothgar, Dragon Rider Oromis, Glaedr, and many others fell by my hand, and Alagaësia is a lesser place because of their absences. The harm I caused is real, and I will not deny it. It should never be forgotten." Then he met eyes with Nasuada again. "My hope now is only that we preserve life and prevent tragedies like that from happening again."

Nasuada's lips curled into the warmest smile, and her eyes had a beautiful glow to them. "Then I will be blunt," she began. "I have two offers for you, one that surely you will refuse and one I hope you will not."

Leaning his weight to one leg, Murtagh set his hand on Zar'roc's pommel.

"Will you swear allegiance to me and accept a position within my council of magicians?" asked Nasuada without wavering.

A curious request. A position on her council would give him free rein to use his magic however he pleased without fear of repercussions. Thus was the intention. Yet Murtagh did not hesitate. "I cannot. My allegiance belongs to the whole of Alagaësia, to this world and the world of spirits."

Nasuada did not miss a beat, for it was the denial she expected. "Then on behalf of all of Alagaësia, I ask you this: will you dedicate yourself as a Dragon Rider in service of us all? By your strength and unwavering resolve, will you guard this land, both flesh and spirit, until your dying breath?"

Murtagh grinned. A far better request. Though his time was brief, it was a request he would honor to the end. "You need not even ask. Of course. For as long as I live."

"Then please kneel," said Nasuada with joy that rang in her voice.

Orik approached and offered her the crystal sword from Gûntera. When she took it, he retreated to his people. Nasuada held the sword horizontal in her upturned palms. It shone like precious gems and suited her quite well. Murtagh hesitated only for a moment and then knelt before her.

"Please let it be known," said Nasuada in a strong voice, "that this sword represents a union between our worlds, between flesh and spirit."

As she spoke, never did her gaze depart from Murtagh. It may have been more proper to bow his head, but he could not take his eyes off her.

"Representatives, please speak. Will you accept Murtagh son of Morzan as Dragon Rider, guardian of Alagaësia, and mediator between flesh and spirit?" Nasuada asked. The entire time, she smiled at him.

Orik scratched his mustache and gave Murtagh a sharp look, but something kind lingered in his gruff tone. "I, Orik, speak on behalf of the dwarves. We say 'Aye'!"

Next, an Urgal Kull stepped forward. "We were slaves, and now we are free." His thick horns flashed in the sunlight as he nodded at Murtagh, and he said, "It is no different with this one. I, Garzhvog, speak for our many tribes and say 'Aye.'"

Orrin shifted his weight between his feet, back and forth, and crossed his arms over his chest. Nevertheless, he said, "I, Orrin of Surda, speak for the humans. We accept."

Arya wore a somber expression as she said, "I, Arya, speak on behalf of my people. Without reservation, we accept."

Then a powerful presence came upon them all in mind only, and Murtagh shuddered at its familiar touch. Glaedr spoke in a booming voice to all,  _After thorough reflection, we of the clan of dragons are of one mind. We, too, accept._

Murtagh struggled to swallow and his heart skipped a beat. Nasuada nodded and then turned the blade towards him. Immediately he bowed his head. The crystal sword rested on his right shoulder and then was moved to his left shoulder.

Nasuada spoke, and her words were soft with compassion. "Alone you bore the weight of sorrow so that others might stand. You spoke for those who could not speak for themselves, and you fought for those who were powerless. You have ever been an ally to those who needed one most."

Then she lifted her voice with power and confidence, like a queen and a warrior. "And now you will rise against the darkness, and against all odds, you will prevail. For you, Murtagh son of Morzan, are like the first ray of dawn that robs the darkness of its power, and no malice shall ever stand against you. Now and forever you shall be known as Dragon Rider and servant of Alagaësia, as friend of spirits, and as he who champions the light. Rise,  _Islingr_."

_Islingr._ Lightbringer _._  He liked it.

Withdrawing the blade, Nasuada took one step back and gave him space. Murtagh blinked and slowly rose, and all eyes were upon him. Yet Orik did not hesitate to come forward and reclaim his sword, and then he scurried back and stood with the rest of the dwarves and leaned on the blade with his head held high. Murtagh could not help but smile. Formal occasions could only be so formal.

Nasuada's lips twitched as she restrained a laugh, but she did allow a smile. Facing Murtagh again, she took on a passive expression. Warmth filled her eyes whenever she looked at him now. It was nice.

"Murtagh," she said, "You alone can face this enemy—you and the spirit with you. However, we will lend our aid however possible. The Ra'zac and Lethrblaka, anything else that stands between you and him, allow us to stop them."

At her words, a wave of heads bobbed through the audience.

All of these people, elves, dwarves, humans—Eragon cherished so many of them. If the spirits failed to contain Morzan, it was not a fight they could win. Murtagh shook his head and opened his mouth, and then Eragon set a hand on his shoulder and silenced him.

"This is not something that you can do on your own," Eragon whispered between them. "And you are the only one who thinks that you have to."

Murtagh inhaled deep and then offered the slightest nod. Both Eragon and Nasuada smiled.

"Then tonight we feast, and tomorrow we depart for Ilirea," said Nasuada in a booming voice, and the crowd erupted into elated cheers.

Chatter overtook their audience, and everyone's tones were lighthearted and full of life. When Arya nodded and led the way, everyone scattered and dispersed into the forest towards Ellesméra. The dwarves went on about food and drink.

Eragon clapped Murtagh's shoulder. "Shall we?"

"I'll catch up," Murtagh said, and he pushed on Eragon's back to send him along after Arya.

Everyone trickled out of the clearing until only Murtagh and Thorn remained. Murtagh went to his partner and shot him the worst glare he could muster. Rather than express any sort of guilt, Thorn's chest swelled, and he puffed fire from his nostrils as he raised his head high.

"You knew about this and didn't tell me," Murtagh grumbled through gritted teeth.

_I am rather pleased with myself._ Thorn snorted.  _I have kept this secret for over a week._

"Thorn!"

_You cannot avoid,_  said the dragon,  _what you know nothing about._

Murtagh let out an exasperated sigh but refrained from saying more when Thorn ducked his head and peered beyond him. Nasuada returned to the clearing alone, and her shoulders were loose and her lips turned up in a genuine smile. No longer did an audience demand propriety from her. Still, she paused at a slight distance.

"Perhaps not by all but by many, you have been accepted," Nasuada said, and her voice rang with elation. "It must be a relief after all this time."

Folding his arms over his chest and crossing one ankle over the other, Murtagh leaned against Thorn's foreleg. He smiled a little to himself as he answered her, and only because he was realizing it for the first time. "Not particularly," he said. When her eyebrows knitted together, he continued with a mild laugh, "Honestly, I became so engrossed in my affairs with the spirits that I stopped noticing the hate and fear in people's eyes. I don't even know when it happened."

"Perhaps there was less hate and fear to be seen." Nasuada smiled again. Tipping her head, she stared deep in his eyes, and it was as if she could see everything in him. For once, the thought did not bother him. Barely above a whisper, she said, "A heavy weight has lifted off your shoulders. You are not who you were."

It was nice to hear.

Murtagh smiled and slipped away from Thorn. Extending his arm to Nasuada, he stopped at her side. "Walk with me."

Nasuada adjusted her cloak to free up her arm, and then she entwined her arm with his. A perfect fit. His heart fluttered, but a dull ache gnawed in his gut. It was something that could never be, doomed from their very first meeting when he was a prisoner in Tronjheim. Now his life was at an end, and tonight could be his last. If he could hear her laugh at least one more time, it was well worth it.

And as they took one step together, Thorn said to them,  _It would be faster to fly._

Nasuada glanced back and then met Murtagh's gaze. "He is not wrong."

With a grin, Murtagh led her to Thorn, and the dragon crouched for them. In her gown, Nasuada had to be helped onto Thorn's back. Then, without an ounce of shame, she hoisted up her heavy garments and parked herself in the saddle, fastening her slender legs in place. Heat rushed to Murtagh's face and he scratched his cheek. The proper thing would have been to look away. He did not.

When she had settled in place, he climbed behind her and contemplated all of the ways he could keep from getting blown away. A hint of glee ran from Thorn to him, like a giggle, and then the dragon jumped off the ground with such speed and force that Murtagh was flung backwards. Nasuada let out an exhilarated cry, and Murtagh yelped. He dove forward and folded both arms around Nasuada's waist in a desperate attempt to keep himself in place. It worked, and Thorn turned in the air, calm and steady.

_Thorn!_  Murtagh yelled between them.

Thorn hummed but said nothing. Nasuada did not reject Murtagh's arms around her, so he left them there.

Gold painted the horizon as the sun crept low and cast a warm glow upon an otherwise barren world. Somehow, everything in Alagaësia seemed to shine.

"It is beautiful," she said without breath.

"Yes it is."

Yet in his heart, Murtagh grieved for what had already been lost. Nature had withered, entire cities had perished, and spirits faded. Even if they won, nothing would be as it was.

_You cannot change the past,_  Thorn told him in private.  _But the future is yet to be written. Our focus must lie there._

_You're right. Thank you._  Murtagh gave Thorn a mental nudge of appreciation.

_Now hold tight,_  said Thorn, and then the dragon whipped around and plummeted into the forest.

Murtagh squeezed Nasuada in his arms again to keep from flying away.  _Thorn!_

Thorn was quite pleased with himself but did not comment on the matter.

\-----

Feast was not an exaggeration. They ate as if it was the end of the world, for it very well may have been. The elves provided such a banquet as Murtagh had never experienced before, not even in Galbatorix's court. After having rested and recovered, he was able to eat without becoming ill, and he took advantage of it.

The rest of the evening was full of song and dance provided by all. Elves, dwarves, Urgals, and humans alike sang, told stories, and expressed themselves through motion. As the night went on, everyone got louder and moved with a little less grace. Several dwarves and Urgals got into a harmless competition of arm strength, and somehow many of them ended up in the dirt. One dwarf rolled across a table. Eragon and Roran got into a boisterous argument about who broke a tool on the farm when they were young, both blaming the other. It was such an ordeal that they parted ways for about one minute, and then they returned to each other apologizing and filling each other's mugs with more drink.

Whatever everyone was having, it was strong.

Murtagh drank water and took it all in. By the end of the night, he could barely keep his eyes open. Nevertheless, as one of the few left awake, he helped clean up the disaster left behind by the large group before retiring to his borrowed dwelling.

A flameless lamp lit his room, and his bed was already occupied. Eragon was curled up with the blanket tangled around his waist. He had started to undress but had only gotten his vest off one arm before falling asleep or simply giving up. At least he had gotten his boots off.

Murtagh chuckled. Unwinding the blanket and setting it aside, he removed Eragon's vest and sword belt. Then he shook out the blanket over his sibling and took a seat on the side of the bed.

A mug sat on the bedside table. Murtagh brought it to his nose, inhaling. The potent fragrance of pure liquor burned his nostrils and stung his eyes, and he held it away from him and blinked repeatedly to keep from tearing up.

"Whew!" With a sharp exhale, he set the mug on the table. "What is that?" Murtagh restrained a laugh as he leaned back.

Eragon made a noise in his throat, something like a groan, and squirmed under the blanket. Then he was still and quiet again, breathing slow and steady. His cheeks had a warm glow from the liquor, and every now and again his fingers would curl over the pillow as if he was having a dream.

Murtagh smiled and could not bring himself to move. After years of chasing happiness and losing it, he finally found it. It was his, and as Eragon persisted in showing him, it was not going anywhere.

Sharing his heart with Thorn had been difficult, but they had suffered so much together that Thorn never once doubted him. Their bond was based first on mutual heartache. It had given Murtagh confidence after Tornac's death that he was not alone anymore. Yet sharing his heart with Eragon had been the most terrifying and painful thing Murtagh had ever done, for his sibling  _had_  feared him,  _had_  hated him, and had every reason to reject him. Against all odds, Eragon was still with him. It was the strangest thing.

Murtagh had hid for so long, but what saved him was coming completely clean. Now he and Eragon knew each other intimately, their likes and dislikes, their greatest strengths and most embarrassing weaknesses, their hopes and their fears. And it was not crippling, it was freeing. It was life-changing.

Bittersweet it was to have near everything he ever wanted only at the end of his life, but Murtagh did not regret it. Perhaps he would not be there to witness it, but Eragon would live a long and happy life. Peace would be restored and a new generation of Dragon Riders would rise. Thorn would have a place to belong. Murtagh smiled because the future was not so bleak.

"Eragon," Murtagh said in a soft tone, and he gently shook his brother's shoulder. "Wake up."

Eragon buried his face in the pillow and attempted to roll out from under Murtagh's hand. Murtagh shook his other shoulder instead until finally Eragon grumbled, "What?"

"Go sleep in your own bed." Murtagh laughed and retracted his hand.

" _You_ ," replied Eragon with a growl, and he lay on his back with an arm folded over his eyes.

"Are you drunk?"

" _You're_  drunk."

This conversation was going well. Murtagh chuckled and cast his gaze to the floor, wringing his hands between his knees.

"I suppose it makes this easier," he began. He met eyes with Eragon as his sibling peeked out at him from under his arm. "Thank you for saving my life."

Eragon made a confused sound like "Oh" that turned into a growl. "I did," he said with a slur. He nodded and extended his hand in Murtagh's general direction, stabbing at the air with a finger as if he intended to poke Murtagh with it. Eragon's brow furrowed when his finger missed. "I stabbed your heart."

"Yes you did." Murtagh smiled from ear to ear. It was so easy now—to smile. Patting Eragon's leg, he said, "Right in my heart."

Eragon rubbed his brow as if his head hurt but released a breathless laugh.

Suddenly, Saphira's mind rolled over theirs like a crashing wave. In a frivolous voice, she said,  _Nestle._  A mental flutter followed that was full of glee, and she seemed to think herself the cleverest and most amusing dragon to ever exist.

At her mental touch, the room tipped. Murtagh blinked to clear his eyes but it did not help. He raised an eyebrow and stared at the ceiling, for certainly Saphira was perched above them.  _Are you drunk, too?_

Their responses came at the same time.

_No,_  said Saphira with a growl.

"Yes." Eragon laughed from deep in his belly, and his face puckered as he nodded his head wildly.

Murtagh smirked and prodded at Thorn who was also somewhere just over their heads.  _And you, Thorn?_

_I refrained for your sake,_  Thorn replied in a low rumble. Previously restrained emotions dumped from him to Murtagh, and suddenly Murtagh's chest tightened and his fingers twitched. Thorn grumbled,  _Now Saphira is sitting on my head._

Murtagh tried really hard not to, he genuinely did, but he burst out laughing anyway. Thorn growled and said nothing else. Apparently, he chose to suffer in silence.

Eragon was already drifting back to sleep and let out a little sigh as his eyelids fluttered shut. Murtagh smiled, and affection swelled in his chest. Certainly their time together had been brief, but he cherished every moment. Gently brushing Eragon's hair aside, Murtagh leaned over him and kissed his brow. Then he patted his sibling's leg again before rising and exiting the dwelling.

Up a winding flight of stairs around the thick trunk of the tree was a sort of nest made of branches and dried leaves, and heaped in it were Thorn and Saphira. Thorn was curled at the bottom of the nest, and Saphira was sprawled over the top of him with her tail on his head and her head on his tail. Somehow she managed to avoid all of his spikes while remaining perfectly attached to him.

Murtagh stopped on the top step and shook his head, and then he crawled into the nest and laughed. "How did this even happen?" Thorn opened an eye and blinked at him. Immediately Murtagh said, "Nevermind. I don't want to know." Some things were better left to the imagination.

Thorn turned his head aside and allowed Murtagh to settle in the crook of his neck. From the other side of the nest, Saphira growled to herself, scratched at Thorn with one back paw, and then began to snore. A most venerable dragon she was. Murtagh chuckled. It was a matter of trust if one, even a dragon, could so let down their guard.

_Thorn,_  he whispered between them. Slipping to Thorn's head, he lifted the dragon's snout with both hands before scratching behind Thorn's jaw.  _Thank you._

With an appreciative hum, Thorn nudged him with his nose.  _What for?_

_For everything._  Murtagh pressed his forehead to Thorn's cool scales and closed his eyes.  _I never would have survived Galbatorix if not for you. You saved my life._  A familiar ache lingered in his chest as he added,  _I only wish I could have been a better Rider for you._

_Murtagh._  Thorn bumped him under the chin and lifted his head. Their eyes met.  _Our circumstances were never your fault, and you did well despite great hardships._  Snorting in Murtagh's hair with a sulfurous breath, he said,  _Never once have I thought that I chose incorrectly. You are mine and I am yours. It is as it should be._

_Thank you,_  Murtagh murmured, and his eyes stung.

Resting his head upon Thorn again, he waited for the emotions to pass. Thorn's mind wrapped him in warmth, and he smiled. Finally, he sat in the crook of Thorn's neck and brought his knees to his chest.

_Night, Thorn._

_Rest well._

Murtagh folded his arms over his knees and laid his head upon them. Wrapped in warmth and strength, safe, he fell asleep almost immediately.


	56. War Between Worlds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost to the end! Hang in there! As always, thanks for reading and commenting, friends. You are all truly the best!

Murtagh stood at the edge of Du Weldenvarden. Far to the southwest lay a churning storm like shifting, boiling black water spreading across the sky. If only they were clouds. Spirits across the world reached into his mind and shared with him images from one end of Alagaësia to another. Armies of humans, dwarves, Urgals, and even many werecats gathered from all the four corners of the continent and waited, and spirits of light rallied around them.

In the center of it all stood Ilirea, and the capital was wrapped in a swirling funnel of raging spirits. Light flickered like a shell around the city as benevolent spirits restrained Morzan and the dark spirits within, but cracks spread through their protective wall. Darkness seeped through, and monstrous creatures made of shadow crawled out and into the world. Yet spirits of light resisted them and held them back in a great battle, but each fight took its toll. More fractures reached across the barrier.

Across the plain and surrounding the capital in every direction was a growing sea of Ra'zac, and the air was swarming with screeching Lethrblaka. Their numbers continued to grow.

"What do you see?" Eragon asked, lurching Murtagh from the visions and back to the edge of the forest.

"Armies have gathered all around the world," he said, and he faced Eragon. "The spirits wait for my command."

Behind them was an army of elves prepared for battle, as well as the various leaders and their smaller teams that had accompanied them. Each warrior donned new armor enchanted with magic and wielded weapons imbued with violet stone.

As for Murtagh, he used protective wards in lieu of heavy armor, for no metal would protect him in this fight. More than anything, he needed to be able to move. Nevertheless, the elves had garbed him in an elaborate tunic of thick black material with crimson and silver patterns. They assured him it was as protective as any armor, and due to their nature, he believed them. Eragon and Arya wore similar garments in different hues.

Nasuada came to him dressed in armor and with a bow and arrows at her back. Her braided hair was twisted up with a golden pin. "What would you have us do?"

Pressing his lips shut to keep from saying something he should not, Murtagh shook his head. He wanted to form a new plan that put less people at risk, but they were already out of time. He could not help the frown on his face as he looked beyond her to the waiting army.

Lowering his voice, he said, "It will be too dangerous for  _everyone_  if that barrier breaks before I—"

"Don't," began Roran in a stern tone, and he stood at Eragon's side. His jaw was set and his eyes were narrow, though this time the fierce expression was not meant for Murtagh. Folding his arms over his chest, he continued, "Just as you desire to protect the people of Alagaësia, so too do we. And if these  _things_  threaten my wife, my daughter, my brother," and then Roran paused to look him straight in the eye, "or my cousin, I have every right to raise my hammer against them."

Murtagh nodded. Every person in the army had something or someone they wanted to protect. It was not an easy fight, but it was necessary for them all. He would just have to accomplish his mission that much faster to ensure Ra'zac and Lethrblaka were the worst of their battle.

"Get them ready," he said to Nasuada, and she spun on her heels and called out commands.

Weapons were drawn, and the army gathered together as one. Humans, elves, dwarves, and Urgals side by side.

Arya came forward, her eyes narrowed. "We will get you to Morzan," she said to him. "Leave everything else to us."

Once again, Murtagh could only nod. An icy pit sat in his stomach. It had never been his intention for others to get involved. If only he had been strong enough to deal with matters more quickly and completely, it would not have come to this. But it had. It simply meant that he would have to be stronger and smarter now.

On his way to Thorn, he met Selena and Brom.

Brom was about to walk past but stopped at his side and caught his shoulder with a firm hand. With fire in his eyes and a tight face, he said, "Win." A single word that carried much meaning. Defeat Morzan. Protect Alagaësia. Survive. Murtagh tipped his head. Brom squeezed his shoulder and then moved on to Eragon.

Selena approached next, and before Murtagh could even say a word, she embraced him. It was so sudden and so warm that for a moment he forgot where he was and what lay before them. Then she pushed him back with her hands gripping his arms, her eyes searching his.

"Put him where he belongs," she said, and her words dripped with loathing. "For what he did to you…" Her grip tightened. "To me, to Brom, to everyone… Murtagh, put him down."

"I will," he replied, and it was meant as a promise.

Then she went on to say, "Keep yourself safe and look after your brother." Setting her warm palm upon his cheek, she said, "I need both of you to return to me. I could not bear to lose either of you again."

Eragon he would protect, but otherwise it was a promise Murtagh could not make. Instead of saying anything, he took her hands in his and kissed her forehead. Wrapping his arms around her, he held her for surely the last time.

"Thank you for coming back for me," he whispered.

Selena kissed his cheek and only released him when he pulled himself away. In a tender but solemn tone, she said, "Be strong and prevail, my beloved child." After touching his face with only her fingertips one last time, his mother slipped past him and went to Eragon.

Murtagh went to Thorn and checked the saddle for probably the hundredth time. Everything was as it needed to be. Ensuring one last time that Zar'roc and Horst's dagger were secure on his belt, he climbed onto Thorn's back and fastened his legs.

_Are you ready?_  Thorn asked, peering back at him with a single eye.

_Now more than ever_. Murtagh spoke several more wards of protection over Thorn. He had already cast plenty, but he did not want to leave any room for error.  _Let's go._

Thorn held his head high as he stepped ahead of the army. Eragon and Arya joined them on Saphira and Fírnen. As Dragon Riders, they would lead them into battle. Murtagh drew Zar'roc, Eragon Brisingr, and Arya the emerald sword called Támerlein. Murtagh tugged on the threads of light that bound him to the spirits across Alagaësia, and he paused for only a second. By his unspoken request, Thorn turned aside. Behind them, everyone waited, armed and ready for battle.

Murtagh raised his voice and spoke also in mind so all could hear. By the spirits' wills, his words spread on threads over all of Alagaësia. "This is not a battle that can easily be won. Your enemies do not fight with swords and spears," he said. "If given the opportunity, they will attack your minds and will steal your freedom. If that time should come, resist them."

Memories of the spirits played through his mind and ignited a fire in his chest. "They are not willing servants of Morzan, but they have lost their way. So if you face them, show them hope, and they may respond with hope. Show them mercy, and they may respond with mercy. And above all else, if you face them," he said, and this most of all he hoped they heard, "survive."

Mouths parted and eyebrows rose, and now he certainly had their attention. All of them were warriors willing to lay down their lives for a cause, but Roran and Selena had made the more compelling argument.

With a tone both firm and gentle, he said, "To any who fall in battle, much honor is given. But greater is the victory of one who returns alive to their loved ones for whom they have fought. Cherish your life." His voice wavered, but still he raised it. "Survive, and do not bereave this world of any more heroes."

Wide eyes and stunned silence answered him.

Murtagh did not bother trying to understand the reaction, and he and Thorn faced forward again. Tugging at the strands spanning Alagaësia, he spoke to one and all spirits.  _Let's go._

Threads rippled across the world, and a host of spirits burst out of the barren earth and swirled in the air. A vast rift appeared not ahead of them but over them, and it sank to consume their armies all at once. Du Weldenvarden disappeared in a blink.

When next their senses returned to them and their feet landed in the snowy plains beyond Ilirea, a fierce wind rushed over them and forced everyone to duck low. Darkness swirled over them like a raging, tumultuous fog. Despite the roar of wind and the shrieks of Ra'zac and Lethrblaka, it was quiet. The darkness dimmed their sight and dulled their ears. A pillar of glowing white light still shone around Ilirea, and there was still hope. Everyone from the least to the greatest braced their feet in the snow and prepared to move.

_Murtagh,_  Eragon said, and it came with suggestion.

When Murtagh moved, they moved. That was the agreement. And so he squeezed Zar'roc in hand and held it forward, and white light charged the blade. In voice and mind, he shouted, "Rise up, fight, and live! For Alagaësia and for freedom!"

Before the words had even completely left Murtagh's lips, Eragon and Arya yelled, "For Alagaësia and for freedom!"

Their small army echoed them, and then so, too, did thousands of warriors on every side of Ilirea.

Spirits burst to life and ignited their weapons with power, and the dark fog that hung over them was forced to flee. Thorn sprang off the ground, and Saphira and Fírnen were right behind him.

With their path cleared, the army charged. A wall of Ra'zac met them first. Thorn crashed into the enemy army with his full weight, heaping their gnarled bodies into a pile and then pouring flames over them to kill several dozen in one go. Those that did not die he caught up in his claws and swept away. Saphira and Fírnen did likewise, and in this way their army was able to spread out and hem their enemy in on all sides.

A wave of Lethrblaka met the dragons in the air. Thorn shot from one monstrous black creature to another, grappling them with his claws and then snapping their necks in his powerful jaws. Those that slipped past Thorn Murtagh only needed to clip with his glowing sword and they would shatter on impact. Those that perished by his blade turned to dust that swept away in the wind, spinning around the capital in a vast cyclone.

When it proved more efficient, Thorn shot over and around Lethrblaka, one after another, and gave Murtagh easy access to them. He swung his blade at wings, snapping fangs, and reaching claws, and even the slightest touch killed the Lethrblaka on impact. Morzan had created a vast army, of this there was no doubt, but none of them had any real strength. His father was only biding time until the light spirits failed and he could reach beyond the capital.

Even though they could not withstand their attacks, the Ra'zac and Lethrblaka had very real teeth and claws. Several Lethrblaka swarmed Saphira and crunched down on her tail and hind legs before Eragon was able to retaliate. Fírnen covered her, tearing the throats of the few that managed to touch her. Thorn circled them and turned in the air, and Murtagh swung Zar'roc through several more, preventing the Lethrblaka from ever reaching them.

All the while, they moved inward toward the funnel that swirled around the capital. The closer they came to it, the stronger the wind, until the dragons had to fly against it to keep from being swept away. The Lethrblaka struggled in the same way. Their battle slowed only because they had difficulty reaching each other.

On the ground, the Ra'zac overwhelmed their army. Even though the Spirits had enchanted all of their weapons, even though their blades were fortified by magic-erasing stone, they could not keep up with the enemy's sheer numbers. Volleys of arrows obliterated the Ra'zac, and several dozen more Ra'zac took their places. Swords, axes, spears, hammers—Ra'zac fell to them and turned to dust that was caught up in the wind, but still more came. They were at a perfect standstill.

Murtagh stabbed the underbelly of a Lethrblaka as it soared over his head. With a single spell he could obliterate them all, though the cost to him and the spirits with him would be great.

And as he thought such a thing, a voice rushed into his head.  _Don't,_  said Eragon. Saphira was above them and Eragon out of sight, but his tone was both firm and empathetic.  _You need to save your strength. Have faith in us._

It seemed his brother knew him  _too_ well. Thorn probably was not helping matters. Murtagh cringed but let the idea go. It was not a matter of faith. He knew very well that everyone would hold their ground until death, but it was death he wanted to spare them.

Thorn shared his sentiments, and he swooped low against the wind and poured flames over the Ra'zac beneath them. Saphira and Fírnen flanked him, and they added their fire. The wind worked in their favor and moved their bodies without conscious effort, and it fanned their flames far and wide. Ra'zac shrieked as they melted to ash.

Just when it seemed they were making advances, just when the Ra'zac visibly began to dwindle, the wall of light around Ilirea cracked. It was slight, like all the others before it, and then it spread from the ground up and into the churning darkness high over their heads. Glowing veins ripped across its entire surface, and then darkness oozed through.

Murtagh went cold. They were too late. Even then the city was several miles from them and the wind too strong to manage. The dragons could only inch inward now without risking having their wings severed. Likely magic was all that protected them against it at all. Glaedr lent his strength, but it was not enough.

Black matter seeped out of the cracks until the light had nearly been snuffed out, and then the shadows swirled together and took on the form of a great and terrible beast. Its enormous tail wrapped around the city as it clawed its way up the wall of spirits. It was long in body but had sharp claws and powerful wings, something like a corrupt Fanghur, and was several times larger than Shruikan. When it opened its mouth, it unleashed such a shriek that Ra'zac and humans alike crumbled. Thorn dipped in the air, Saphira wavered, and Fírnen fell back a mile before collecting himself.

Then shards of the light barrier beneath the darkness broke away and transformed into violet stone that fell to the earth. Not only were the benevolent spirits failing, they were dying! Murtagh shivered, and Zar'roc trembled in his hand. His momentary preservation was not worth all this!

From the holes in the barrier and out of the capital came streaks of black light that shot in every direction over their vast armies. Dark spirits scattered and settled upon the heads of whoever they could find and engulfed their victims in shadows. Humans, elves, dwarves, Urgals, werecats, all fell victim to their touch without a moment of struggle. Their army turned on itself. Still more dark spirits came forth from Ilirea and stole from their army its free will.

"No!" Murtagh shouted, and with his mind he caught every last spirit that he could, stopping them in the air.

The massive creature around the capital took a single step on the shining wall, and the barrier shattered. Darkness spread across the plain in every direction, and the wind increased tenfold and forced all of the dragons low. In a wide radius around the capital, Lethrblaka and Ra'zac were blown away.

The enormous dark spirit lunged, reaching for Fírnen who had fallen behind. Murtagh hit its mind, and then Fírnen flipped in the air and avoided its gaping mouth. The emerald dragon fell into the wind and spread his legs, smashing directly into the dark spirit's face. His claws dug deep into shadows and tore off a large chunk of its head, including its eyes. Then the wind took Fírnen.

Murtagh used the temporary distraction and grappled the dark spirit's mind. All minds, in fact, every dark spirit that he could find. He held them all, and he restrained the darkness within Ilirea by strength of mind alone.

_Thorn,_  he whispered. It took an exceptional amount of energy to speak.  _I love you. Please know that I do._

Concern rippled from Thorn to Murtagh.  _Murtagh—_

_Tell Eragon for me, too,_  Murtagh said, and the darkness pulled at him. His vision blurred. Nevertheless, he fumbled with the straps binding his legs, peeling them off one after another.  _If you remember long enough._

_Murtagh!_  Thorn started to turn in the wind, tried to move away from the capital. Then he shouted,  _Eragon!_

Too late. Murtagh released himself from his restraints and jumped into the wind. A rift of darkness took him and then deposited him in the air at the stiff wall of shadows that he had restrained around Ilirea. As he fell, he charged Zar'roc with a blinding light until the sword's glowing blade reached into the heavens. With one swing, he cleaved a vast hole within the darkness.

_Murtagh!_  shouted Thorn and Eragon, and against all odds, Thorn and Saphira fought the wind and came for him.

Murtagh fell backwards into the fissure he had created through the darkness. Drawing the corrupt spirits to himself, he bound them again within the capital. Then his companion spirits left him, and they built a new wall around Ilirea to restrain the darkness. A pillar of light extended from the ground all the way to the darkness in the sky.

The keeper of balance withdrew itself from him and added its strength to the barrier. Taking on its mighty form with feathered wings and flowing tail, it leapt across the pillar and hit the giant dark spirit. They grappled at each other and toppled into the snow. Dark wrapped around white, but the light broke through. The keeper overcame its malice easily, ripping it apart and turning it to dust.

Falling, Murtagh shouted spells of sealing and protection. Not as before, for he could not risk losing his strength as a Rider, but enough. Light flared around the city, and then darkness splattered over the walls in an effort to find a way out. No cracks, no way out.

At the last moment, Murtagh shouted a spell to slow his fall, and he toppled onto a street in Ilirea. Pain gnawed his joints, chills took his body, and black spots scattered across his vision. Weakness crawled through him. He waited only long enough that he no longer felt like throwing up, and then he rolled over and got to his feet, plucking Zar'roc off the ground.

All of his companion spirits were gone, even the keeper of balance that had aided him from the start. They were the last line of defense keeping malice from overtaking Alagaësia. He would have to finish this before they ran out of strength.

Ilirea had become nothing more than a shadow. Darkness crawled over buildings and lined the streets. Bubbling and twisting darkness spread across the sky as malevolent spirits fought the light and tried to escape. A thick fog hung in the air made of black dust.

Deep within Ilirea was its castle, and above it was an array of faintly glowing black stairs and bridges leading to the heavens. Somewhere at the top was Morzan on his false throne.

Murtagh took a deep breath. Then, without reservation, he set off for the castle to kill his father.


	57. Freefall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goodness! Can't believe we're almost there. Only one chapter left after this, my friends. It's been a journey! Thanks for reading and commenting, as always~ You guys are awesome.

Murtagh stepped onto the highest platform over Castle Ilirea, and his father greeted him with a smile.

Morzan sat upon his throne with one leg crossed over the other, leaning his cheek on his curled hand. His foot bobbed in the air at a slow pace. "You and your brother are equal parts foolish." Then he waved his free hand towards the glimmering barrier that bound the darkness. "You sacrificed your spirits for this? What did you hope to accomplish as you are?"

Sitting up straight, Morzan planted both feet firmly on the floor. Shadows crossed his eyes, and darkness crawled over his body and spread around him in the air. Dozens of twisted, corrupted spirits. They surrounded Morzan and fell away from the shining walls surrounding the city, and then all at once they turned inward and imploded over Murtagh.

Murtagh steeled himself against them and stood his ground. Tried as they did, they could not breach his mental barriers. He had far too much experience with them now to fall victim to them. Then at last he filled Zar'roc with white magic and swung the blade, cutting their malice to dust. The black storm fled from him and retreated to the walls.

"You will not overwhelm me," Murtagh said without turning his icy glare from his father. "I am not weak and broken anymore."

It was slight, but Morzan's eye twitched. The fingers of his right hand tapped over the arm of his throne. "Broken you may not be," he growled, "but weak you are." Then his focus sharpened on Murtagh, and he launched his own mental attack. He hit hard.

Murtagh flinched and took one step back as Morzan hit him—Morzan and dozens of spirits with him. They wound their consciousnesses together into a sharp point and slammed into his barriers with ferocity unlike anything Murtagh had ever experienced. Though he was left reeling, his walls did not fall.

Then he pushed back. He had no false sense of hope. Murtagh knew he would not overpower them all. Instead, he focused on keeping Morzan out while picking apart the malice within his father one tiny thread at a time. It was as if with one hand he held his father back and with the other hand tried to unravel and retie complicated knots. All the while, splitting pain spread from his forehead back to the base of his skull. Sweat beaded on his brow and ran down his temple.

Morzan kept smiling.

They waged mental warfare for several minutes that dragged on, neither gaining nor losing ground. Murtagh kept reaching for the dark spirits, attempting to free them from their bondage, but Morzan sharpened his attack again and stabbed into Murtagh's mind. It was the first time Murtagh's mental barrier wavered. He kept pulling strings.

Morzan laughed and waved a hand in the air without ever ceasing his attack.

Darkness poured off the barrier and coalesced into several creatures like young dragons. They swept out of the air and crashed into Murtagh, one after another. The first Murtagh blocked with Zar'roc, the second with a mental thrust, and the last one hit him like a strong wind and sent him rolling across the platform. He popped right back to his feet and cut the darkness with Zar'roc before it hit again.

More creatures slithered out of the shadows, and they grew in size and strength. Murtagh shifted his mind again to unwind the threads of all of the dark spirits built up within Ilirea. As their hatred and sorrow trickled across their connection, he staggered. Morzan thrust into his mind again and Murtagh hit the ground on one knee. Only for a second. Forcing himself back to his feet, he grappled with his father and pulled at hundreds of knots all at once. Sweat poured off him, his heart pounded in his chest with agonizing thumps, and blood roared in his ears.

"Do you truly believe you can hold all of these pieces together?" Morzan rose from his seat. His smile had diminished and wrinkles crossed his forehead. "You cannot succeed against me and hope to survive."

"I don't need to survive," Murtagh growled between short breaths, "I just need to take you with me."

Murtagh lunged forward, and a ripple in space took him from one end of the platform to the other. He burst out swinging behind Morzan's back, and his father drew his crystal sword to counter him. Morzan blocked every blow, but Murtagh attacked him just the same in a flurry of successive swings and stabs. Metal rang against crystal, and sparks flew between them.

Feinting left, Murtagh swung from the right. Morzan caught the attack, and immediately Murtagh dropped his blade under his father's sword and swept it up from below. A counterattack followed from his left that forced him to retreat one step, and then Murtagh thrust again. Back and forth they went until Murtagh was blinded by sweat that stung his eyes, and agonizing tightness squeezed his chest. Not a hair was out of place on his father's head but his smile was gone.

Swing after swing. Thread after thread. Murtagh dodged every blow, physical and mental, and kept chipping away at the darkness. Everything was a blur.

Then the walls caved in again and a creature like a Lethrblaka fell over them. Morzan sidestepped in anticipation, and Murtagh jumped backwards to avoid the brunt of the attack. Nevertheless, darkness that was cold as ice and hot like fire curled over him, searing his skin. Murtagh swung Zar'roc and cut the fog that lingered over him, but more crawled into place and sucked the air out of his lungs. He allowed it. Gripping all of the threads he could within the swirling darkness, he yanked them apart and then put them together again.

Darkness shifted to light. Suddenly the heavy air around Murtagh lifted. Sorrow poured into him until only spirits of light remained. They flashed rainbows of colors and then shot upwards. Light raged against darkness like two vast storms colliding, and then the healed spirits built another wall, trapping the malevolent spirits between two barriers of light.

Morzan took a step back, and his lips parted and then closed. His cold, cruel gaze fell again to Murtagh.

Terrifying memories and deep sorrow overwhelmed Murtagh, but he pressed everything back. It was just one more thing to try to balance. Without faltering, he swung at Morzan again, Zar'roc flashing brilliant red in the light. His lack of hesitation and the speed of his attack must have thrown his father off, for Morzan slipped back several steps as he deflected the blows. If Murtagh could not breathe, he was not going to let his father do so either.

Morzan's face contorted into a malicious scowl. Blocking a strike with his sword in one hand, he lifted the other hand and shot a sphere of black magic from his fingertips. The magic hit Murtagh in the stomach and shattered a layer of his diminished wards. Murtagh fell back and answered with three explosive blasts of red energy and tore apart the platform between them. Then he jumped through a rip in the air and came out swinging at Morzan's head.

Another block. Always another block. Murtagh kept pulling at threads, kept resisting the forces attacking his mind, kept swinging.

Overhead, the thin barrier of light cracked, and pieces fell away to violet stone. Dark matter boiled out of the fracture and dripped towards the platform in an enormous teardrop. It shifted and split apart, each piece taking on the shape of a different monster. Ra'zac, Fanghur, Lethrblaka, the sea serpent known as Nïdhwal, and even a man that bore a striking resemblance to Galbatorix.

Morzan retreated, and Murtagh spun to face them one after another. Their energy was so twisted and corrupted that even the slightest touch left burns on his skin. He dodged, cut, and pulled at threads. As he finished off the last one, he spun on his heels and met Morzan's blade again. His father was glaring, but his lips were turned up in a twisted smile.

"It is not worth it!" Morzan said with a snarl. "You are dying for a world that wishes you dead! You are hated and despised!"

"No," Murtagh replied in a sharp exhale. "You are."

Something flashed in Morzan's eyes like the deepest, darkest rage. Black energy exploded from the platform at his feet and threw Murtagh backwards. Dark spirits fell off the barrier and hit Murtagh hard, dropping him to his knees and forcing his head to bow. He pressed his hands against the platform to keep from crumbling and gritted his teeth.

One thread. Then another.

"This is the difference between us." Morzan glared down at him, his face drawn and his eyes sharp. Darkness swirled around him. "Those you help will inevitably fail you, and you will never truly reap the benefits of their strength." Then he grinned, pressing the tip of his blade to the floor as black matter swallowed it. "If you had been wiser and stronger, you would have enslaved them as I have."

One knot, then another.

Murtagh shook. The pain took his breath away, and despite his best efforts, tears reached the corners of his eyes. Forcing his head up, he met eyes with his father. With paralyzed lungs and through clenched teeth, he said, "Your method has a fatal flaw."

Morzan tipped his head just a hint, and his eyes narrowed.

"If given the chance," Murtagh told him, "your slaves will betray you."

Tightening one last thread, Murtagh stole the malice from a spirit in Morzan's head. Light flashed and eradicated the darkness around Morzan, and he screamed and staggered backwards, grabbing his face. Light radiated from his eyes and mouth. He clawed at his skin and roared in agony.

If only for a second, the mental attack on Murtagh relented, and he forced himself up under the weight of darkness and took one step and then another. Letting out a shout against the pressure on his body, he dove across the platform and swung not Zar'roc but instead Horst's dagger that he drew from his belt. It cut through bone and plunged into Morzan's heart.

Morzan screamed, and now his voice carried with it the echo of hundreds of spirits. He kicked Murtagh back and stumbled across the platform, and shadows and light erupted from his form and shot in a hundred different directions. In a blinding storm of lights, while roaring in agony and rage, Morzan lunged and thrust his blade.

Murtagh leaned but could not evade, and the sword cracked through ribs and pierced his lung. Rather than fall, he snatched hold of Morzan's forearm and held him in place, and then he stabbed Zar'roc through his father's chest.

Darkness tore them apart, and Morzan fell on the platform and did not move again. Murtagh staggered and clasped the hole in his chest as blood bubbled out of it with each shallow breath. Pressing Zar'roc into the ground was the only thing that kept him upright.

Dark spirits great and small whirled in the barrier until a vast storm of darkness surrounded Ilirea. All of the barriers fell against them. The bridges and stairs, all of the shifting shadows that covered the city, lifted away like a mist and added to the black tempest. The very platform on which Murtagh stood ripped away from the city and floated into the sky, and its edges crumbled from the outside in. Morzan's body turned to dust and faded away.

Far and wide, Alagaësia turned to black mist, and all of it drifted to the singular storm around Ilirea where the corrupted spirits raged.

_Quickly_ , said the keeper, and it flew up from beneath the platform and alighted before Murtagh. Its form flickered and twisted in the storm of darkness.  _You must rid them of malice before balance is forever lost._

Murtagh took a shallow breath, and blood gurgled in his chest. He sheathed Zar'roc and the dagger, clasping the wound with both hands to stop the loss of blood and air. It would do no good to die now, and everything was already spinning. In a haze, he reached for the threads of the dark spirits whirling around him but found only a few. Darkness blinded his eyes and dulled his mental acuity. Even when the keeper joined him and lent him its strength, he could not reach far enough to stop the world's downward spiral.

As he tried, the platform rose ever higher even as it crumbled away. Heaps of darkness lifted it from the earth. Everything was fading. Everything the keeper had shown him was coming true.

"Listen!" Murtagh cried, and he spoke in voice but also in mind. By the few threads that he could grab, he sent his words like waves over the whole of Alagaësia. He choked on blood but kept speaking. "You don't want to do this. You don't want to live like this. This is not who you are!"

Beneath him, the platform rocked in a violent wind. Murtagh stumbled forward but set his feet apart and kept standing. The ground was so far away, and it was so cold.

"You cannot do this alone… and you don't have to. Give your hatred and fear to me!" Murtagh turned in a half circle, and all around him, the storm of shadows shifted into the shapes of hundreds of slight Lethrblaka. They roared and shrieked at him and kept on spinning. "You have to make the choice to let it go. Give it to me, and I will bear it!"

Then, hundreds of spirits turned inward and crashed over him like an avalanche. Cold as ice and heavy like boulders, they crushed him and forced him to his knees. Murtagh screamed through gritted teeth, and then a strange silence fell over him like passing into a void. Shadows moved around him and placed threads of magic in his hands. He took a few at first and reworked them, and then he moved hundreds at once with but a thought from his mind.

Malice fled, and shadows with it. Wind ceased. All of the darkness that spun in the air shifted to white and sank back to the earth and rebuilt itself. Hundreds if not thousands of spirits twirled in the sky, and they fell upon Alagaësia in a rainbow of flashing lights. By their strength, they restored what had been taken. Snow melted across the land and gave way to life. Grass sprang from the dead earth and leaves unraveled from trees. The Spine was covered in thick forests and the Beor Mountains were capped in snow. Du Weldenvarden was an emerald ocean in the north and the Hadarac Desert shone gold.

The platform continued to rise and fade away, and the world was so small. Murtagh stopped trying to breathe, and he pressed a hand on the ground to keep from falling. The keeper stood aside, and its form and majesty had returned. Hundreds of spirits spun around them in the air, trapping them in a world of white.

_It is time,_  said the keeper.  _One last exchange must be made. I have given of my world to restore yours. Now you must give of your world to restore mine._

Murtagh only nodded. Bowing his head, he closed his eyes.

A voice called his name. It was muffled and far away, like a dream. Murtagh could no longer breathe, so surely it was his mind failing him. But then he heard it again and raised his head.

"Murtagh!" yelled Eragon, and the spirits split open a pocket in space and deposited him on the platform. He looked around for only a second, and the instant his eyes landed on Murtagh, he ran. Terror flashed across his face as he hit his knees beside Murtagh, and his hands grappled at Murtagh's shirt. "Hold on!"

Black clouded Murtagh's vision, but it was no longer caused by spirits. Rather than worry about anything else, he grabbed the front of Eragon's tunic and yanked him forward. Then he wrapped his arms around his brother and held him. Eragon froze at the gesture and then returned it. His hands pressed over the gaping hole in Murtagh's back, and warmth flowed from his palm as he healed him.

Taking a single breath, Murtagh murmured, "Eragon." It was all he could manage, and he was so tired.

Healing complete, Eragon held him just as tight. It was quiet.

Murtagh could not catch his breath to speak, and words would not do it justice anyhow, so he reached for Eragon with his mind. When a connection was established, one without walls or restrictions, Murtagh shared with him everything he had on his mind. His gratitude and appreciation for all Eragon had done for him, his unshakable respect for him, and his unwavering love for him. All of these things Murtagh shared with Eragon.

Tears filled his eyes when Eragon shared with him the same.

In that moment, mind to mind and heart to heart, it passed between them like a faint and beautiful whisper. Their true names. Murtagh smiled. Eragon's true name was rather heroic but still a little immature. In the end, so was his, for they were not so different.

"Grow in wisdom and strength," Murtagh told him without letting go. "Overcome every obstacle in your path. Raise a new generation of Riders, and lead them and teach them how to be just like you." Then he squeezed his brother's shoulder for the last time. "Live a long life, Eragon."

Eragon's grip on him tightened and he let out a shaky breath. Barely above a whisper, he said, "I'm sorry."

Murtagh clasped Eragon's shoulders and leaned back to meet him face to face, and then he stopped. Eragon's hair, his face, his hands—every part of him—was fading into a white mist that flitted away and disappeared. Murtagh went cold as ice and could not blink or breathe, could not speak.

Eragon offered a tiny smile even though he had tears in his eyes. "I couldn't let you die."

"No," Murtagh breathed. He shook his head. "No." He clasped Eragon's face with one hand in a vain attempt to hold him together. It did not help. His voice broke. "No, it wasn't supposed to be you…" Eragon's arms and legs faded, and Murtagh engulfed him in his arms. His eyes shot around the platform and landed on the keeper. "This wasn't the agreement!" he screamed. "Take me!"

Eragon leaned heavy on him. Lights kept spinning away.

"You can't disappear!" Murtagh shouted. And then he screamed again and again as he wept, "No!" Then his mind and his heart reached out for anything that might hear his cry. He reached for spirits, for life within his world and theirs, and into the endless void that stretched between them. He poured his very self into the words as he called out, " _Líf_!" Again and again, a dozen times or more, he called for life and then he shouted his brother's true name.

Something stirred deep within him, something at the point where his human and spirit selves collided.

Far below them, the land shone with a violet hue, and then from the four corners of Alagaësia came streaks of amethyst light like shooting stars from the earth. Clusters of violet stone hit Murtagh with as light a touch as a mild summer breeze. But more and more came, thousands of them, and they became a part of him. The platform shone with a fierce light, and Murtagh was the source.

" _Líf_ ," he cried one last time as Eragon faded from his hands, and he said his brother's true name again, a name he did not want to forget. Then his arms collapsed and held only air.

A great explosion of wind and lights followed, and Murtagh was thrown across the platform and landed hard on his back. Brilliant white light blinded him as it scattered everywhere. White spots flashed across his vision until he blinked them away. Crystal blue sky greeted him overhead, but it was watery from the tears in Murtagh's eyes.

Murtagh sat up. The platform had become like glass with a faint white glow. All traces of shadows were gone. Turning his head to where he expected to find empty space, he found Eragon instead. His brother was at his side, unconscious and sprawled over the crystal floor. Murtagh tried to say his name and made a pathetic sound instead. He patted Eragon's chest and head, and then he tapped his cheek to wake him. Eragon groaned, and his eyelids fluttered.

"Eragon," Murtagh finally stammered.

In a haze, Eragon blinked and stared at the sky, and then at last he met Murtagh's eyes. Murtagh patted him again to ensure nothing was broken or injured or  _missing_ , and then he pulled his sibling upright and kept a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Are you all right?" Murtagh asked.

Eragon turned over his hands, his face pinched into a frown, and then his shoulders fell and he dropped his hands between his legs. A mix of emotions came over him, something between a frown and a smile with tears in his eyes.

"I think so," he whispered.

Beyond Eragon was the keeper of balance, and it watched over them with its crystal eyes. Its tail fluttered behind it like a shining white banner.

Murtagh did not loosen his grip on Eragon. To the being, he asked, "Why?"

_You are a curiosity, creature of flesh,_  it said, and its cold and calculated voice now bore a ringing flutter.  _You took upon yourself all of my kind that have been lost to time and restored them to life. You have reached places where neither my kind nor yours are able to go—somewhere between our worlds._

"I don't…" started Murtagh, and then he shook his head and frowned. He did not understand.

_With the restoration of my kind, you have brought forth an abundance of life._ The keeper stepped forward but remained at a distance, and its wings unfurled over them. Lights rained down like snow.  _The void has been filled and balance has been restored._

Murtagh opened his mouth and shut it again, and he squeezed Eragon's shoulder. "No one has to be erased?"

Ringing like a bell passed from the keeper to Murtagh, and certainly it was a laugh. It flapped its wings, and lights scattered in the air.  _No. And by the life you brought forth, my kind has healed your world of all harms. All of these we have done in the nature of balance, for life has prevailed._  Curling its tail around Murtagh and Eragon, it touched Murtagh's cheek.  _We have not forgotten your sacrifices and have given you a gift. May it ease your sorrows and allow you to heal._  Then the keeper of balance took back its tail, folded its wings, and bent its front legs, bowing its head.  _We express our gratitude, Lifebringer._

Lights fell away from the powerful spirit, and it faded before their eyes. Murtagh and Eragon alone sat upon a sheet of glass that floated miles above the world. When they were alone, Murtagh met eyes with his brother again, and they stared at each other without saying a word. Murtagh exhaled a laugh, and then Eragon did too, and they embraced each other again.

"Don't ever do that to me again," Murtagh said as he struggled to restrain a laugh. Despite the terrible circumstances they had faced, or rather  _because_  of them, now he could not contain his joy. It welled up out of him in laughter and tears.

"Same to you, Brother," replied Eragon with a chuckle.

Neither made any grand effort to release the other.

Then at last Eragon said, "It isn't so bad." With a smile in his voice, he added, "Nestling."

Murtagh laughed. "Thorn and Saphira would be pleased." He pushed Eragon back and held him at his shoulders, and his brother had tears in his eyes, too. They exchanged smiles, and Murtagh released him.

"You aren't a spirit anymore," said Eragon, but it was more a question.

"No." Murtagh shook his head and patted his chest. The exchange was done. They took what they gave him but nothing more. Yet something lingered, but he could not quite place it. "It seems I've become rather plain."

"Oh yes, you, plain," Eragon replied, and he rolled his eyes as he climbed to his feet. He walked a small circle across the platform and stopped in the middle to rub his head. "I can't reach Saphira from here. It's a long way down."

Murtagh rose. His muscles moved without pain, his head was clear, and without a doubt, his fever was gone. After weeks of barely being alive, it was surreal. Strolling to the edge of the platform, he leaned over. The spirits had wrapped them in some sort of bubble to keep them safe and warm, but they were stuck where they were. Ilirea was a speck beneath them.

A smile tugged at Murtagh's lips, and he faced Eragon again. He said, "Let's go."

"One wrong syllable and we are flat on the ground," Eragon grumbled.

"I would never let you fall," Murtagh told him. "Trust me."

Eragon tipped his head, and a warm light shone in his eyes. Approaching the edge, he stood beside Murtagh.

Again they exchanged smiles, and then together they jumped.


	58. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the end. This story was a lot of fun to write, and I'm glad that some of you were able to enjoy it, too~ Thank you for taking the time to read, to leave comments, and to kudos. It's always nice to know someone was engaged in the adventure as I was, that we were in it together, and so thank you for being around. More than words can properly express, I appreciate you all so much! THANK YOU!
> 
> Now, to the end!

 

A week passed, and Murtagh slept almost the entire time. It was not from physical exhaustion or fever but a mental and emotional exhaustion that finally caught up with him. Thorn was just as weary.

Arya encouraged them to return to Ellesméra, and once they arrived they were provided a comfortable place to rest. Murtagh joined Thorn in a nest at the top of a tall tree, and there they slept, side by side, and recovered their strength. Food always appeared for Murtagh, and for this he was grateful.

It was a bit hazy, but one time he thought a cat stepped on his face.

When their strength returned, Murtagh prepared for departure. A small group met him in a clearing on the ground. A few elves were scattered about and minding their own business. Angela lurked in the shadows with a smile upon her lips, and with her was the child Elva. Thorn, Saphira, and Fírnen were blasting fire into the sky to see who could shoot the farthest. Arya was off to the side and watching the dragons' spectacle. Murtagh said his goodbyes to Eragon, Selena, and Brom who would return to Mount Arngor together.

Brom shook Murtagh's hand and then clasped his wrist tightly. "Thank you for all you have done." Warmth filled his eyes, and he smiled wide. "Whenever you tire from your travels, return to us."

Murtagh smiled and responded only with a tiny nod. When Brom released him and stepped aside, Selena took his place. Rather than take his hand, she wrapped her arms around Murtagh and held fast to him.

"I know you have things you must do," she began, "but please return to us soon." Leaning back, she grasped Murtagh's arms. "Your home is with us. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mother." Murtagh nodded.

Selena remained as she was a while longer, searching his eyes. Smoothing back his hair with a gentle hand, she kissed his cheek and released him. Then she went to Brom, and they remained at a slight distance.

Eragon stood before Murtagh next, and though he smiled, his eyes held a fair amount of sorrow. "Come with us."

Murtagh contemplated an acceptable answer but could think of nothing. Shrugging, he said, "If I can, I will be around."

"No,  _come with us._ " Eragon shifted his weight between his legs, and then he continued, "I'm asking you. Please come and stay with us." Then, as though the thought just came to him, his eyes brightened and he said, "You would serve as an exceptional sword master for the new Riders. Or as an instructor on mental fortitude—"

"Eragon," said Murtagh.

His brother went quiet, his shoulders falling. Murtagh offered his hand, and Eragon accepted it. They clasped each other's forearms in a firm grip.

"Thank you, Brother," Murtagh said, and warmth and affection bubbled out of him and into his words.

Eragon squeezed his arm. "Thank  _you_." He passed Murtagh an affectionate smile before they released each other, and then Eragon went to join his parents. Together they departed with Saphira for Mount Arngor.

Murtagh jumped when Arya spoke up from behind him, and he spun on his heels to face her.

"You are always welcome here," she said. "And Fírnen would enjoy Thorn's company."

Yet as the words left her mouth, Thorn and Fírnen snapped at each other's necks at the edge of the clearing and made several elves scatter. Both spit flames and threatened to ignite the forest. It was not the pleasant and playful fighting between Thorn and Saphira. A hint of jealousy flared up in Murtagh from Thorn.

"I rather think we should keep them apart," Murtagh replied with a mild laugh.

"Be safe in your travels," Arya said without giving the dragons much more thought.

"Thank you." Murtagh tipped his head at her and turned to leave.

"Murtagh," she started, and her eyes were soft. It was such a fleeting look on her, but it suited her. "It seems you found what you were looking for."

After everything, he had forgotten. Murtagh smiled. "Yes, I did."

Arya answered with a smile but nothing else. Murtagh departed with Thorn.

\-----

Thorn did not try to talk him out of it, but he followed close behind him and occasionally almost stepped on him as he entered the vast underground city of Tronjheim.

Dwarves had seen them coming and went running as soon as they arrived. No one tried to stop them, but no one said anything. Murtagh scratched his head but kept moving.

Inside the central cavern that was the heart of Tronjheim, Murtagh met Orik. Gathered along the walls on bridges and ledges and on the floor must have been a majority of the city's inhabitants. Everyone was gravely silent, and Orik wore a dreadful scowl.

"So you came," he growled.

"I have an oath to keep," Murtagh replied.

Despite Murtagh's willingness to surrender his life for his crime against Hrothgar, Thorn planted his claws on either side of him and built a protective wall around him. Orik eyed the dragon nervously and thumped the toe of his boot on the floor several times.

"On your knees," said Orik, and he averted his gaze.

Murtagh pushed Thorn away with his mind, but it did not help. Inhaling deep to slow his racing heart, he settled on his knees and bowed with his head to the floor. As he was, Orik could cut off his head in one swoop with his crystal sword. When the dwarf king drew the blade, gasps erupted from the vast audience and a stampede of small footsteps followed. Thorn rumbled in his throat and passed to Murtagh a strong desire to survive. Murtagh rejected it.

Orik tapped his boot on the floor again, and then he said, "Today you have fulfilled your oath. I release you."

Murtagh blinked and raised his head. Many dwarves had drawn near, surrounding them on all sides. On their faces was not hatred or fear but utter relief, and many heaved great sighs at Orik's pardon. It was the strangest thing Murtagh had ever seen.

"Many of ours fell to the spirits and did what they never desired to do," Orik told him, and his hard face melted into something weathered but soft. He rested the tip of the sword on the ground and placed both hands over the pommel, leaning upon it. "Galbatorix alone bears the blame. You are forgiven."

A wave of nods passed through the audience. As far as the majority was concerned, the decision was unanimous.

"Thank you," whispered Murtagh.

Orik sheathed his sword, and his face lit up like a small child's. Turning abruptly, he threw his hands up in the air, and dwarves clamored high and low. With a giddy roar, he said, "Now let us celebrate with food and drink!" To Murtagh he said, "Come, Shinyfriend! Allow us to show you how dwarves feast!" Orik stormed away and was lost in the bustle.

"Shiny—" started Murtagh, and he whipped his head from side to side. He shot Thorn a look as the dragon filled with glee.

Hanging his head, Murtagh sighed. It was a lost cause. They joined the dwarves for a great banquet, stayed the night, and set off again in the morning.

\-----

Ilirea was as beautiful as ever. All of the damage done by Morzan had been restored by the spirits, and for this Murtagh was glad. He went to the castle, and no one stopped him—no one even raised an eyebrow at his presence.

Nasuada dismissed her few attendants and guards from her study when Murtagh arrived. She set down her quill and rose, straightening her gown. "Thank you for coming."

Murtagh smiled but held his tongue.

"I know the answer, but I wanted to extend the offer again regardless," she said. Her eyes were bright and clear, and a warm smile always graced her lips. No trace of sorrow or guilt remained in her, and for this Murtagh was glad. "Will you consider staying in Ilirea and joining my council?"

Staying in Ilirea was a possibility he had often considered, but he could not join her council. Not yet, at least. "I can't," Murtagh said. "But thank you for the offer."

"Where will you go?" she asked, and then she laughed and looked at the floor. "Nevermind." Murtagh smiled but said nothing, and so she met eyes with him again. "Will you visit?"

"Will you let me?" His tone was teasing, but her brow furrowed just the same.

"I have asked you twice now to join my council. I value your voice."

"Then I will come," he told her. "And if ever you need, call for me. I will be here."

Nasuada's eyes shone. "I am glad to hear it." Returning to her seat, she moved several parchments around and sighed. "I have many matters to attend to now, but will you stay a while?" She met his gaze, and a smile teased her lips. "I would like it if we could speak again about anything we have on our minds."

"A while it is." Murtagh gave a slight bow and then excused himself to the door. "I'm looking forward to it."

"Murtagh," she called out, and he paused in the open doorway. "Please visit the training grounds before you get yourself settled."

"Why?"

"Did you not sleep for a week?" Nasuada turned in her chair and took her quill from the bottle of ink, scrawling on the parchment. Tilting her head to one side as she wrote, she said, "Surely vigorous sparring would do you well."

Exhaling a laugh, Murtagh went out and closed the door behind him.

After nearly two weeks of minimal physical activity, sparring  _did_  sound like it would do him well. He made his way down familiar halls to the training ground where he spent a significant amount of time as a child. It had been years since he visited the place, not since he had first fled Urû'baen. The hall was pristine, as if no one used it anymore. Murtagh prodded a supply shelf that he had tipped over a few times in childish rages.

Out in the field arose the swishing of a sword in powerful and calculated strokes. Murtagh stepped out of the hall and onto the field, and there he froze.

A man fought against the air with a silver sword. His back was turned, but his wavy brown hair was unmistakable, as were his fluid movements and perfect stance. He attacked the air as though facing a grave opponent, spinning on his heels and twisting his blade around him. Then he saw Murtagh for the first time and stopped.

Murtagh's mouth hung open, but he could think of nothing to say. Heat built behind his eyes, and his heart raced so fast in his chest that it hurt. He wanted to ask how or why, but he knew. The spirits had given him  _a gift._

Tornac smiled to his eyes, and Murtagh smiled back.

And so Murtagh and Thorn remained in Ilirea for several weeks.

\-----

The spirits had provided Murtagh with another gift. It came at a cost, for he was certainly no longer bound to the world of spirits has he had been, but it was a worthwhile gift just the same. He opened a rift in space, and he and Thorn crossed Alagaësia in a blink. They soared out of darkness into crystal clear skies.

Thorn circled Mount Arngor several times, scoping out his new hunting grounds, and then dipped down into the courtyard of the stronghold. Murtagh's feet had scarcely landed in the grass before Thorn scurried off and met Saphira. The two nipped at each other and growled. Brom and Selena came out of one of the buildings but remained at a distance. It was Eragon who approached him.

"You came," said his brother in a quiet voice. It was full of emotion but also a hint of hesitation.

With a smile and a shrug, Murtagh asked, "Do you still have a place for me?"

Eragon's face lit up and his eyes brightened. "We just finished getting it ready." He chuckled and then tipped his head aside. "I can show you."

Murtagh nodded, and Eragon led him across the courtyard. Before they got far, Thorn and Saphira tackled each other to the ground with a thump and roared with such great volume that several elves came running with weapons at the ready.

"Your dwelling is right next to mine," Eragon murmured, and he scratched his head. "I'm sorry, but I think you'll have to move."

Murtagh laughed.

Saphira took Thorn out hunting and showed him all of her favorite places, and Eragon took Murtagh to his new dwelling, a cavernous hole in the side of the mountain that included a nest for Thorn. For now it was all rather bare, but it was theirs. It was more than he had ever dreamed of. Then he and Eragon joined Selena and Brom for a quiet meal, and they spoke together freely, without restraint. All the while, Murtagh smiled and laughed, and it came easy.

At last, he was home.


End file.
